


Deserted

by Castielslostwings



Series: Wild [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Alaska, Beaches, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Boats and Ships, Brave Castiel (Supernatural), Canon-Typical Injuries, Caring Dean Winchester, Case Fic, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Desert Island, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Hacker Sam Winchester, Hawaii, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, PTSD, References to Dom Cas/Sub Dean, Rescue Missions, Romance, Sam Winchester Saves The Day, Smart Dean Winchester, Survival, Survivalist Dean Winchester, Team Free Will (Supernatural), Vigilantism, Wilderness Survival, near-drowning, switch Dean/Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: "This was a mistake, Castiel thinks, almost laughably. Lightning does strike twice."Six years after their plane crashed, stranding Castiel and Dean injured and alone in the unforgiving Alaskan wilderness, life is pretty damn good. Married and more in love than ever, they've settled into their shared life together with few bumps along the way and no intention of ever ending up in a situation like that again. That is, until Sam shows up for a visit and turns everything they thought they knew about where they're going and where they've been upside down. Somehow, Sam manages to suck Dean and Castiel into flying to Hawaii to help him untangle a twisted, murderous web where tourists are disappearing and hacking for evidence just won't cut it. What will happen when a would-be heroic Team Free Will gets in over their heads, stranding Dean and Castiel in a brand-new kind of wilderness and leaving Sam to once again follow a breadcrumb trail to ensure they survive?
Relationships: (background), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Series: Wild [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627474
Comments: 555
Kudos: 643
Collections: The Fatback Multiverse Collection





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as a joke, and then, like the fuckboi I am, I was all... jk, but what if?!
> 
> Also it was pointed out to me that Hatchet has like, a thousand sequels, so. Here we are! Thank Gary Paulson, I guess? 
> 
> This one has a bit more Sam and is a lot more canon-reminiscent in that it has TFW together fighting crime and evil and all that, but rest assured, the main focus will be on Dean & Cas surviving the desert island together. There will also be NO relationship angst or contrived break-up: these two are in love, they're each other's biggest supporters, that's just not going to happen, so don't worry about it. 
> 
> No update schedule, y'all know how I am, I say a week and then end up posting a chapter less than 48 hours later so I'll just promise that updates WILL happen regular-irregularly. It's already mostly written and will absolutely not be abandoned, ESPECIALLY because the phenomenal [@Winchester-Reload](https://winchester-reload.tumblr.com/) aka JackieDee is art-ing a commission to match the one she did for "Wild"!! And, who cares about the story? TBH I just want to see Jackie's version of our boys on a beach. 
> 
> Thanks, as usual, to my bff Jen aka [coinofstone](https://coinofstone.tumblr.com/) for the editing assist, I would be [more of] a miserable wreck without you [than I already am, thanks for putting up with me].

_Water._ That’s the first thing that registers, once anything registers at all. There’s water all around him, engulfing Castiel completely and threatening to draw him down into the deep, swallow him whole. With water comes _silence,_ and this is no exception. It consumes everything; the noise from the storm above, the pieces of the ship sinking around him. Even the sound of Castiel’s own screams and his heart beating in his ears. Beneath the surface, he’s truly alone. This isn’t Castiel’s first time fighting for his life beneath deceptively deadly waves, and yet, there’s no reprieve, not like last time. His booted feet kick, thrash, searching for the sandy floor even as they push uselessly, like a spoon through pudding with all the weight pulling them down.

Bubbles escaping from his lips, Castiel’s lungs ache and his throat burns and it’s so god-awful familiar he thinks he could cry. Maybe he is crying, and he can’t tell for all the wet already surrounding him. The salt of the ocean stings his eyes as he blinks blearily against the unforgiving current, fighting to see, to identify anything he could use to pull himself up and out. His t-shirt billows around him, oddly gentle, considering, and his pants stick to his legs uncomfortably. Castiel’s head _throbs_ and the cold of the deeper water seeps through his clothing and under his skin.

The void below him is deep, a gaping maw that’s sharp and wide and unforgiving. Castiel _knows_ that void, has seen it before, sees it still in his darkest nightmares of a time he should have left behind long ago.

 _This was a mistake,_ he thinks, almost laughably. _Lightning does strike twice._

Once again, Castiel resists as he feels the void expanding below him, unhinging its jaw, threatening to swallow him whole, turn him back into stardust and light, and leave all of this behind. _Once again,_ the pain in Castiel’s body becomes secondary to the fear, and then shortly after the certainty, the absolute knowledge—that this is the end.

He _would_ laugh, if his mouth and his lungs weren’t full of water, if he weren’t drowning and unable to save himself one last time. 

As Castiel slips away, it’s not like they show in the movies. There’s no clip show, no highlight reel featuring all of his defining life moments. There’s no montage of “could have beens” and missed opportunities. 

There’s just… green.

And then nothing.

***

_Three Weeks Earlier_

Releasing a content little sigh, Castiel pulls the drain stopper from the bottom of the farmhouse-style sink, shaking his hands out before finishing them off on the dishtowel slung over his shoulder. Above the sink, the picture window that looks out over the side yard reveals a scene that truly makes Castiel’s heart happy. In front of him, Dean, in just a flannel, jeans, and heavy boots despite the chill outside, raises an axe over his head and brings it down repeatedly, splintering the pieces of wood stacked vertically in front of him. 

Despite being married for almost three years now, just seeing Dean nearly always brings a smile to Castiel’s face. He wipes his hands again absently before dropping the towel and thinking about joining his husband outside.

The sprawling yard is snow-covered right now and probably will be for the foreseeable future, but that’s not exactly a surprise for Alaska in January. In fact, the weather’s been mild this year, warm enough that neither Castiel nor Dean has been snowed or iced in, unable to get to work. Not that Dean would let a little snow stop him anyway—if his truck can’t hack it, there’s always the snowmobile. And while Castiel certainly isn’t about to risk life and limb just to open an office absolutely no one will be visiting that day, that doesn’t mean he can’t go for a ride when Dean offers. 

In fact, those are some of the best days—working on his laptop from home (or rather, from Bobby’s shop), while Dean putters around fixing cars and bickering with Bobby about business. The loose excuse of “weather” is more than adequate in Castiel’s mind to justify not only that, but the time spent pressed tightly against Dean on the snowmobile. There aren’t many places Castiel would rather be than with his arms wrapped around Dean’s waist as he navigates them fast and smooth over roads that even the plows struggle to pass. 

Thanks to the warm-ish weather, though, it’s been weeks since they’ve had a day like that. Today, in fact, it’s nearly above freezing outside. With the sun shining the way that it is, the very top layer of snow might have even had a chance at melting. Well, if the sun were showing its face for more than five hours a shot, anyway. Checking his watch, Castiel notes the time; just barely after two in the afternoon. He grimaces, that’s less than an hour left of full daylight before sunset begins. Four hours and thirty-one minutes today in total. 

If there’s anything Castiel’s struggled to adjust to living with in Alaska, it’s this. The sun, or the lack of it. The rural, wild atmosphere, the harsh weather, the absence of Starbucks; none of that ever fazed him. The way that everyone trusts and relies on their neighbors but ultimately depends only on themselves, well, Castiel’s always had Dean to lean on. All of the other changes, really, Castiel adapted to surprisingly quickly. It’s a whole different world up here in Salcha compared to the one Castiel left behind, but six years in, he has zero regrets. Sometimes, he does think about his sterile, gray apartment in the middle of Chicago, left behind without hesitation along with his devastatingly boring, dead-end job at Sandover Holdings International. Those memories, recollections—they’re never wistful, never fond, it’s just still such a shock to Castiel, such a _relief_ to see how far he’s come. 

His old life was _so_ damn different from the one he leads now. 

Point being though, the sun. If there’s one thing Castiel misses in the dead of winter in Alaska, it’s the sun. It’s a trade-off though, and he knows that come July he’ll be cursing the twenty hours of daylight living this close to the artic will grace their days with. Still, the sun can be hidden with black-out curtains and, well, _sleeping._ On the other hand, losing daylight at three in the afternoon just gets depressing after a while. 

With that thought, Castiel strides across the open-plan kitchen and into the living room, all the way to the far wall that sports a row of coat hooks. Unlike Dean, Castiel’s never quite learned to tolerate the cold, which he supposes should have been expected. It’s not as if Chicago was a tropical oasis, either. If he didn’t grow a thick skin there, he probably was never going to do it here. Even still, a little chill will be worth the sun on his face and the boost of Vitamin D in his veins.

And if being outside gives Castiel an excuse to distract Dean with some unexpected flirting, that will just be a bonus.

As he shrugs into his coat and pulls on the matching scarf and beanie combo Sam’s fiancé Jess knit for him last Christmas, that familiar spot in Castiel’s chest warms at the mere thought of Dean. _That’s strange, isn’t?_ Castiel thinks. He’s always been led to believe, by popular media and Balthazar (and in retrospect, perhaps that’s the problem) that romantic love fades. That even if a person is lucky enough to find someone who lights their fire, that fire will eventually flicker and go out, leaving behind something far less dramatic and powerful. Coals. Ashes, maybe. More of a memory of the bonfire there once was than anything else.

It’s not like that for them, not for Castiel, anyway. If Dean’s behavior is any indication, not for him either. 

Not that Castiel has any experience of his own to compare to, since Dean’s the only person who’s ever made him feel _any_ type of sexual attraction at all, but he’s still relatively certain he and Dean are not normal. In this, at least, it feels good to be the exception. That six years into knowing Dean, Castiel still gets happy when he’s about to see him, even if Dean’s only been one room over. That his fingers tingle when they lace with Dean’s own. That merely _seeing_ slips of Dean’s skin when his shirt rides up as he bends over the open hood of a car makes Castiel want to jump him. It’s all very… juvenile, but in the best way.

Stepping out from the living room onto the wide, wooden front porch, Castiel pulls the door closed behind him and fixes the wreath on the hook when it slips out of place. Several yarn-woven bees hover around a cluster of fake flowers, all wired to the basic stick-wreath shell Castiel bought at the craft store in Fairbanks the last time they were there. Dean had grumbled, complaining that there were plenty of sticks in their own yard and why couldn’t Castiel just tie a bunch of them together? He’d even tried, when Castiel challenged him, winding up apologizing for bitching and promising not to be a dick about Castiel’s interests in the future. 

Which is only fair, since Castiel didn’t complain when Dean decided their entire front porch needed to be torn out and replaced within a _week_ of buying their home. A _week._ They hadn’t even fully unpacked yet, and Dean was doing projects that required demo. Still, as Castiel walks across the finished space, admiring the hand-laid boards he’s stepping on and the sturdy pillars propping up the (now-level) overhang above, he has to admit that it was worth it.

The whole house has been worth it, really. They’re coming up on a year here now, and Castiel’s never been happier. It’s not like they _meant_ to stay at Bobby’s for so long, but with Castiel starting up an accounting practice from scratch and having very few clients able to be poached from Sandover, it just seemed practical. And then the wedding had come up and their savings took a hit. Dean’s car and her restoration didn’t help, either. Plus, Sam went to law school and Dean felt some type of way about helping him through it, which Castiel would never begrudge. 

And then, after a lot of coaxing and patience, Dean himself had been convinced to go back and get his degree. At first, he had _only_ been agreeable to online courses, and _only_ so that he could repair the newer, fancier, computerized engines that were becoming more common than not. Even out here in EastWest, Nowhere, Alaska. Maybe especially out here, since most people are able to fix and maintain a basic engine, but not a supercomputer on a chassis. 

But Castiel had recruited Bobby to apply some subtle pressure to Dean, dropping hints about how Bobby wouldn’t be around forever and how the shop could benefit from someone who had real education in business and such. 

Castiel’s pretty sure Dean cottoned on to them quicker than they gave him credit for, but more importantly, Dean bent like a tree branch during an ice storm. And now, he’s got an MBA to show for it, and with his new applied knowledge, Bobby’s business is flourishing, better than it ever has. They fix pretty much anything with an engine now, and while Dean will never admit it, Castiel can tell that he’s proud of himself. 

Bobby’s happy, too, since the increased revenue means he’s been able to hire another mechanic, which in turn means _more_ revenue. And with Dean stepping up to the plate on the management side, Bobby is free to take off pretty much whenever he likes. As far as Castiel can tell, that just means more time to sit at the Roadhouse bar and torture Ellen, but it’s not as if anyone hears her complaining. 

Regardless, with all of that going on, it had simply been easier for Dean and Cas to stay put. It wasn’t as if there were an abundance of rental units nearby, either, and living right next to the shop meant that the unpredictable Alaskan weather never impacted Dean’s ability to go to work. It just made practical sense. 

Still, _practical sense_ didn’t stop Bobby from becoming annoyed at being subjected to Dean and Castiel’s very strong interest in being as close to each other as possible at all times. For the most part, they were respectful, especially Castiel, but Bobby’s house was only so big. As adamantly as Bobby pretended he never heard what they did in their room at night, Castiel knows the walls weren’t _that_ thick. Plus, according to Dean, Bobby never used to go up to Slaven’s without company, but after the two of them moved in, it seemed like he was heading there nearly every weekend. 

The three of them ultimately cohabitated in harmony, though, and Bobby’s ability to escape from both the home and the workplace whenever he liked kept the peace. Castiel’s grateful, since not having to pay rent allowed him time to gain a client base while Dean was working on his own career. After that, they put away money hand over fist until they were packing enough for a sizable down payment on a home. 

When they finally decided to go for it, Dean had already been eyeing up this place for over a month. From their first visit to closing, it was less than thirty total days before they were homeowners. 

The little log cabin on a couple of acres, a big garage, and a sizeable shed in the backyard for all of Dean’s toys and tools was perfect for them. It’s cozy and homey, the interior walls wooden like the outside, with a big master, a nice bathroom, and even a spare bedroom for Sam to stay in when he visits. There’s a huge wood-burning stove in the corner of the living room that heats the open space, including the kitchen, and Castiel keeps it fired up nearly all the time while they’re home. 

When it’s warm enough, the back patio hosts a table, chairs, and a grill and the front porch has two rockers. Right now, the porch space is bare as Castiel wanders across, his eyes already locked on his target. As he watches Dean hoist the axe up over his head again, Castiel’s only lament is that he misses being outside in the warmth with Dean. Seeing Dean dressed down, in a t-shirt and shorts, muscles gleaming from sweat. The major trouble with the mad dash to save money and buy their own place was that it _also_ left no room for a break. They haven’t been on vacation in the three years since their honeymoon, and in Castiel’s opinion, it’s long overdue.

He makes a mental note to bring “getting away” up to Dean later tonight. Now that they’ve settled into their mortgage and home ownership, their savings are _slowly_ starting to rebuild. They both work hard, though, and they deserve some kind of getaway. And Dean _still_ hasn’t left Alaska, save for that one time they went to get Castiel’s things in Illinois, and a few visits to Sam at Stanford, including his recent graduation. Dean deserves more, deserves the entire world, and Castiel wants to show it to him. 

But for now, the sun on their faces in their own backyard will have to do. 

The fresh, iced-over snow crunches under Castiel boots as he makes his way across the side yard. When he gets close, Dean finally looks up, squinting and blinking into the sun but grinning all the same. “Hey there, sunshine,” he says, grunting as he swings and brings the axe down onto another piece of wood. “Remind me next year to chop these _before_ I stack ‘em in the garage. Whew.” Dragging a sleeve across his brow, Dean leans the axe up against the stump and lets Castiel slide easily into his space. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel murmurs before cupping his jaw and drawing his husband in for a kiss. 

_Sparks._ Just like always, kissing Dean is as thrilling and fulfilling as the very first time. His smile against Castiel’s lips, the way Dean’s mouth drags to Castiel’s cheek before he nuzzles down into his neck. 

It’s a struggle to pull away, especially as the sun glints behind Dean’s head, dropping down low towards the tree line. The first couple of years after their rescue, moments like this would hit Castiel hard, a mix of adrenaline and fear telling him that he’d never gotten out at all. Just the slightest turn of Dean’s head, the chill of winter air with snow on the way, anything could set him off. Now, things are better. With time and therapy, Castiel’s managed to re-sort those memories into mostly good ones. Today, flashing back to Dean’s profile, dark with the sun behind him as he pulls a makeshift sled along the edge of a mountainside, doesn’t hurt as much.

Mostly, it makes Castiel grateful. 

“Come to soak up the sun?” Dean teases, spreading his arms and turning his face to the sky. “Whole forty minutes left today.”

“That, and to see if you needed help,” Castiel acknowledges, stooping to pick up an armful of the splintered logs. “I thought you did this before you piled them up in the garage.”

Dean halts for a second in his own movements, hunched over with a piece of wood dangling from his hand. As his cheeks pinken with something other than cold, he at least has the decency to look abashed. “Uh, not exactly,” he hedges.

“I see,” Castiel replies smoothly, straightening up and suppressing a smile so that Dean thinks he’s grumpy. “So what you’re telling me is that you lied about completing this chore so that you could claim your reward?” 

“Whoa, hey,” Dean blusters. “I did not—Okay, fine. Maybe I lied a little. I stacked the whole cord in the garage, though. And I’m cutting them down now,” he says defensively. “That was the night with the—the sexy accountant thing. You… and the trench coat! _Just_ the trench coat,” Dean continues, raising his eyebrows pointedly and shifting the wood in his arms so that he can free a hand to point an equally accusatory finger at Castiel’s chest. “You set me up.” 

Under the pretense of carrying the chopped wood he’s gathered back to the garage, Castiel turns away. It’s mostly to hide his smirk at Dean’s expense, though. “You’re lucky,” he calls over his shoulder. “I should bend you over the porch railing, cold or not.”

“That’s not a punishment,” Dean mutters.

“But Sam will be here any minute,” Castiel continues loudly and Dean groans. 

“Fuck me.” 

Not bothering to hide his amused expression this time, Castiel stops and turns back to face his husband. “I suppose I could do that, later. Although, with your brother in the next room, you’ll have to be quiet. We may need to gag you. Because there will be a punishment, and I know how loud you like to get when you’re spanked.” 

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean moans, crossing his legs and pressing the heel of his hand over his crotch while Castiel strides away, laughing and entirely pleased with himself.

Alright, so perhaps not _everything_ is the same as it was when he and Dean first met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof come yell at me on:  
> [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings) :)
> 
> Oh and check out Cas and Dean's house in [Salcha, Alaska!](https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/6084-Salcha-Pioneer-Ct_Salcha_AK_99714_M88349-73667#photo2)


	2. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He’s lost it,” Dean says, but Castiel just presses his lips together and gives his husband a look. “No, seriously, Cas, how can you possibly think that he hasn’t totally fuckin’ lost it?”_

The pale yellow headlights of Bobby’s truck pan across the living room less than an hour later. Castiel looks up from where he’s been arranging meat and vegetables on baking sheets and smiles as he watches Dean spring excitedly off of the couch. It’s a bit early for dinner, despite the now-lack of sun, but Sam’s always starving after he travels and Dean’s a bottomless pit on a regular day. Bouncing across the room to the window, Dean yelps gleefully before running outside, leaving the door creaking wide in the cold wind behind him. Castiel just shakes his head and goes back to the food, entirely used to Dean’s puppy-like behavior when it comes to reuniting with his brother.

The man’s been sprawled faux-casually across the cushions of their loveseat ever since the two of them came back inside from chopping wood, and Castiel’s been giving him space. Despite his best efforts, Dean’s always been terrible at concealing his jitters, especially from Castiel, even from all the way across a given room. While Castiel suspects that some of Dean’s apparent anxiety is actually anticipation related to his forthcoming “punishment,” he also knows that Dean can’t wait for Sam to arrive. If push came to shove, Castiel wouldn’t pit a night with him against a night just hanging with Sam, not when the brothers have been apart for nearly a month. 

With the door still hanging open, Dean’s excited voice is audible as it drifts in on the breeze. Castiel smiles to hear him so happy; Dean’s been missing Sam greatly, like they’d left him in California three years and not three weeks ago. While Castiel is looking forward to spending time with Sam too, Dean’s love for his brother is second to none. Privately, Castiel worries about the day when Sam stops coming back. Now that he’s graduated from law school (and a semester early at that), it’s inevitable that he’ll put down roots, settling down with Jess and building his own future. As far as Castiel knows, Sam doesn’t have any plans to do that here in Alaska. In fact, he’s relatively certain that’s why Sam is back now; one last extended visit to say goodbye for good. The only question at this point, is how Dean will handle the news.

Bobby’s the first one inside the house, knocking the door wide using the duffle slung over his shoulder. Stomping his feet on the mat, he grumbles unintelligibly before dumping the bag unceremoniously onto the floor and beelining for the fridge. By the time Dean and Sam stumble through, all smiles and with Dean’s arm slung easily around Sam’s shoulders, Bobby’s nearly polished off his first beer.

“Damn idjits,” he grunts, grabbing a second before making himself comfortable on one of the couches. “Act like you didn’t just see each other coupla weeks ago.” 

“Aww, don’t be jealous Bobby,” Dean croons, releasing Sam to bend down and drag Bobby into an overly dramatic hug, complete with a noogie to the top of his head.

“Geroffame!” Bobby mutters, shoving Dean away. He grumbles but doesn’t do a very good job of looking displeased, barely concealing his smile as he straightens his old, battered ballcap.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam greets him with a smile, rounding the counter that separates the living room and kitchen with his arms already open.

“Sam,” Castiel replies warmly, letting Sam envelop him into a rib-crushing hug. “Oof.” 

“Sorry,” Sam says sheepishly as he pulls away. 

Behind them, Dean’s following Bobby’s lead, digging in the fridge for more beer bottles and handing them out. “Coppin’ a feel of my husband?” he asks, hip-checking Sam, whose giant frame doesn’t move an inch. Dean just shrugs and crowds Castiel up against the counter, accidentally knocking into the pan of vegetables which Castiel manages to catch _right_ before it goes clattering to the floor. Undeterred, Dean and his ridiculously good mood get hands on Castiel’s hips and press playful kisses to his neck. “Not that I can blame you, look at him. Hot as hell.” 

“Uh, no,” Sam replies bluntly with an accompanying eye roll, stepping away to join Bobby on the couch. “Not my type. No offense, Cas.”

“Why would I take offense?” Castiel wonders, gently extracting himself from Dean’s hold to open the oven and slide their meal inside. 

“I’m gonna need another beer if this is how this night is gonna go,” Bobby declares, burping as he waves his second empty in Dean’s direction. 

“Poker after dinner,” Dean declares by way of reply as he obliges Bobby without complaint, and his surrogate father grunts his assent. Washing his hands before joining his family in the living room where Dean holds out a hand and drags him down onto the other half of the loveseat, Castiel sips the beer Dean passes him and lets their thighs press together on the cushion. The contentment radiating off of Dean is infectious, and Castiel can’t help but bask in it. 

This should be a good night.

***

By shortly after midnight, Bobby’s fucked off to the Roadhouse to make last call, and probably to try and convince Ellen to come home with him. The rest of them are drunk, and Sam’s excused himself to the front porch to Facetime with Jess, who is also drunk and long past last call somewhere on the east coast. 

Pleasantly warm and fuzzy, the whiskey kicking in to the point where it makes him crave Dean’s skin on his own, Castiel runs a hand up his husband’s calf, under his jeans. “I would _love_ to get these off of you,” he murmurs. 

“Soon,” Dean replies from his reclined position on the couch, legs kicked up and draped over Castiel’s own. His eyes are heavy-lidded and his cheeks are flushed, and not even for the first time today Castiel is filled with a blooming sensation in his chest, pure appreciation for how damn lucky he is. The fire in the wood stove is burning down low now, but the room is still toasty-warm and cozy, adding to the comfortable domesticity of it all. “Hey,” Dean continues, poking Castiel’s thigh with his socked toe. “Thanks for not givin’ me shit about Sam.” 

“Never,” Castiel assures him, now kneading the muscle of his calf, because Dean never said he couldn’t. 

Sloshing his drink as he tries to replace it on the coffee table with arguable success, Dean sighs and stretches, casting a glance towards the closed front door and his brother’s muffled voice beyond. “I know we just saw him last month at his graduation, but I’m really glad to have him home.” Dean pauses, glassy eyes still trained on the door. “So proud of the little shithead, y’know?” 

Recognizing Dean’s drunken emotional ramblings for what they are, Castiel just nods and continues soothing hands up and down Dean’s leg before grabbing a foot and digging thumbs into his arch. Dean’s eyes slip closed briefly as he groans and for a second, Castiel thinks that’s going to be it, but apparently, the whiskey’s doing a number on both of them tonight, albeit in different ways.

“Always knew he had it in ‘im,” Dean mutters, looking barely awake. “Now he’s a _lawyer,_ even graduated early, passed the bar exam first shot.” He whistles and Castiel bites back a smile. Dean’s particularly adorable when he’s in proud-Papa-mode, which is essentially anytime Sam is even mentioned in his proximity. Add alcohol and Sam himself, it’s basically a recipe for the sappiest version of Dean that exists. “Anyway,” Dean says, sobering suddenly which gets Castiel’s attention. “This is it, isn’t it?” Castiel freezes with his hand behind Dean’s knee, eyes fixed on the denim swirls of his jeans, not wanting to misunderstand and respond inappropriately. 

But Dean just sighs and turns more fully into him and away from the door. When Castiel meets his eyes, they’re sad, but a lot clearer than he would have assumed from Dean’s tone. “Everyone’s gotta grow up eventually, right?” Castiel withdraws his hand and Dean makes a grab for it as soon as it’s free, twisting their fingers together. His voice is a lot softer when he says, “I know I’m glad I did.” 

“It’s not like you won’t see each other.” Castiel tries to reassure him, and Dean cracks a half-smile in response. “You’ll always be brothers. Sam will always know that he comes first with you.” 

“Yea,” Dean says wistfully, his gaze once again drifting back to the door. “It’s not like he’s even lived up here for years now. We’ve been a ‘summers and holidays’ kind of family for a while, and we’re doing alright.” His toes press down into the meat of Castiel’s thigh. “You ever think about moving away from here?” 

While he certainly has a knee-jerk reaction to that question, which is that Alaska is home and he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, Castiel is careful with his reply. For all of his macho bluster, Dean is a sensitive guy, and Castiel highly doubts he’s actually testing the waters to see if they can move. More likely, he’s feeling vulnerable about Sam growing up, and this is his way of poking at Castiel, wondering if he’s going to “grow up” and leave Dean behind, too. “My home is wherever you are, Dean,” he says, because it’s the truth. If Dean _really_ wanted to go, Castiel would pick up and go with him, no questions asked. 

Propping himself up on his elbows, Dean strains to lean forward and close the gap between them. Their lips meet softly and Dean lingers, tasting like alcohol and the memory of the blueberry pie they had for dessert. “You keep me steady, Cas,” Dean says against his mouth, after he pulls away. 

His head dizzier, like it always is when he’s close to Dean but more so now, thanks to the alcohol, Castiel just smiles and nods. He’s about to say something, hopefully something helpful about making plans with Sam for his next visit before he leaves, when they’re interrupted. 

With a blast of cold air accompanying him inside, Sam comes crashing through the door, red-faced and snow-speckled. “Close the door, you animal,” Dean pretend-grumbles as he settles back against the couch. 

“Sorry,” Sam replies breathlessly, shucking his coat and kicking off his boots before sinking down on the couch perpendicular to them with a sigh. Dean stretches his arm and just barely gets the tips of his fingers into Sam’s hair, but Sam jerks away before Dean can do much damage. Using his own hands, Sam brushes away the snow, leaving it to melt into tiny puddles on the warm leather couch. “Jess wanted to see the snow fall, so I went out into the yard.”

“Doesn’t Boston or wherever she is have its own snow?” Dean asks. “‘S’cold there, too.”

“Not yet,” Sam replies with a shrug. 

“How long is she staying, anyway?” 

Sam hesitates before answering, fiddling with the iPhone in his hands, and Castiel tilts his head to the side. He’s known Sam for long enough at this point to recognize certain expressions, and this one is interesting. He’s hiding something, and Castiel can’t tell whether he’s just waiting for the right moment to share, or genuinely being secretive. “Uh, she’s heading back to Stanford this weekend. She still has a whole semester of grad school left.”

“Well,” Dean says easily, “Can’t all of us be geniuses. I’m just glad you’re taking some time to visit. Kick off your shoes, hang out with us little people, you know, before you leave and forget about us altogether.” 

Laughing a little nervously, Sam steals a glance at Dean and ducks his head. “So you know?” 

“What? That you’re not planning on coming back here for good? Yea, Sam. I think it was pretty obvious you were never going to waste that hundred-thousand-dollar Stanford education by hanging out a shingle in fuckin’ Salcha.” Dean’s voice is gruff and Castiel can feel him tensing, so he keeps on soothing hands over his legs, hoping he’s making a difference. When Dean catches his eye, he shoots him a wink, so he supposes he must be. There are days when he wishes Dean was freer with his ability to do “chick-flick” conversation with his brother, but he does try, _is_ trying, and Castiel can’t ask for more than that.

“No offense, but you’re kinda taking this better than I thought you would,” Sam offers. Dean just grunts, busying himself with swiping his whiskey glass back from the coffee table and taking an avoidant sip. “But um…” As Castiel watches curiously, Sam goes back to messing with his phone before taking a deep breath. “So get this,” he says in a rush. “With me… leaving and all, I kind of had this idea.”

That gets Dean’s attention, and he tips his head back to look over at his brother. For his part, Castiel hasn’t looked away. “Oh man,” Sam continues, uncharacteristically anxious in his tone. “This was a lot easier to bring up to you guys in my head. Now that I’m here, it kinda feels a little crazy.” He barks out a little laugh as Dean shoots Castiel a look that’s equal parts worry and _what the fuck?_

“Sammy,” Dean says, pushing himself up and off of Castiel’s lap, much to his dismay. “What’s wrong? Is it Jess? You knock her up?”

“No—”

“You’re not sick, are you? Shit, Sam, it’s not—”

“ _No,_ no, Dean, I—”

“Well, what, then? You moving to the North Pole to study penguins?

“Penguins live in Antarctica, Dean, and no, of course not.”

Dean scoffs. “Duh,” he says. “Everyone knows that. So what is it? What’s got your man-bun in a tangle?”

Pausing first to shoot Dean a truly inspired bitch face, Sam holds up a hand. “If you’re done with the Spanish Inquisition, I’ll tell you. You gonna shut up long enough for me to get a word in?” Dean smirks but he lifts his palms and gestures for Sam to proceed. “So,” Sam says, taking a deep breath. “Alright. You remember the whole thing with Dick Roman, and how excited I was about hacking his computer and taking him down?”

“Hell yea,” Dean replies enthusiastically, leaning forward to clink his glass against the mostly-empty beer bottle Sam’s picked up again. “That was awesome. _You_ were awesome.” He takes a drink and Sam blushes a little as he shoves the hair out of his eyes for about the twentieth time during this conversation. Dean might actually have a point about cutting that mop. 

“I had a great time doing it,” Sam admits. “Weirdly. I mean, I feel kinda funny about saying that, since, you know, he almost got you guys killed and the whole situation was just… fucked. Hell, Cas was still in the ICU at the time I was doing all that stuff. But I’m just trying to be honest, it was _fun._ It felt… really good to help, even in a small way. Even if I was too late to save the rest of the people on your flight.” 

Instinctually, Castiel reaches out for Dean’s hand and finds him already there, intertwining their fingers together. While it’s been years since simply talking about or reflecting on their ordeal sent Castiel into a panicky or depressed spiral, that doesn’t mean it’s _easy_ now _,_ either. Coping, catharsis—those things are all well and good, but wounds still leave scars. Castiel and Dean’s scars will always be there, no matter how much distance they get from the event itself. Thankfully, they both understand and recognize the mutual need to acknowledge, but keep moving. Dean squeezes his hand.

“You never really talked about any of this,” Dean prods gently.

“I know,” Sam agrees. “That’s… I’m telling you now. The thing is, I feel like that whole incident woke something up inside of me.” Castiel can nearly _feel_ the inappropriate comment bubbling up inside _Dean_ , and he digs a nail into his husband’s palm to stop him. Sam is clearly working at something here, and Castiel fears if they distract him, he might never spit it out. Ducking his head and very clearly choking back his own words, Dean stays quiet, and Castiel bumps his shoulder in appreciation. 

Thankfully, Sam doesn’t seem to notice their silent exchange, continuing on unfazed. 

“Ever since then, I’ve been looking into things. Here,” Sam says, reaching down and unzipping his backpack to pull out a laptop. While it boots awake, he keeps talking. “I set up my computer to track certain patterns and then alert me. I thought, if I could just get ahead of things like what happened to you, then maybe I could stop them from hurting someone else. Keep another person’s brother or son or mother from going through what I did, what you guys had to, or worse. At the very least, I thought I could repeat what I did with Roman, out criminals like him after the fact, help the cops get information they wouldn’t otherwise have access to.” 

Dean’s sitting forward now, his brow creased with intent as he stares at the screen of Sam’s laptop and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing. Castiel forces himself to tear his own eyes away from his husband and do the same. “So, what, you’re like… a hacker vigilante? I know I made that joke about you being like Anonymous, but this is… this is pretty fuckin’ cool. So what have you found? How many bad guys have you helped put away?” 

With a grimace, Sam sits back and looks guilty. “Well, that’s the thing. My algorithms… Whatever I have them monitoring, searching for, it hasn’t been very useful. I’ve looked into some stuff over the years, but nothing really came of it. And the hacking skills aren’t useful if I don’t know _where_ to look or what, generally, I’m looking for.”

Raising an eyebrow, Castiel just waits patiently, squeezing Dean’s hand again when he opens his mouth, which makes him promptly shut it again. Sam rubs his hands over his thighs, suddenly sweating like the room is hotter than it is. 

“Why now, right? Why am I telling you this now? That’s the thing. I think I finally found something.” 

“That’s great,” Dean enthuses, ever the supportive brother. “And you’re like, a real badass lawyer now, so you can, you know, bust ‘em on the legal end of things too, right?” 

“Not exactly,” Sam hedges, and then he sits forward and starts typing. “So, okay. One of the things my algorithm does is ping news stories. Especially strange or unusual occurrences and repeat events. A couple of weeks ago, I got this alert for tourists going missing in the Hawaiian Islands. It’s strange, because it’s almost as if the authorities aren’t that interested. Normally with something like this, you’d see statements from the police, follow-up with the victims’ families, but there isn’t any of that. Anywhere. In fact, the only reason it was picked up by the news at all seems to be that these people never checked out of their hotels, but their rooms were cleaned out. None of them ever left the island, though, at least, not on a plane or any other way that would have a record of it. It almost looks as if they just up and disappeared into the island itself.”

“Okay…” Dean says slowly. “Not sure I’m following. Look, Sammy, sometimes folks don’t wanna come back from vacation. Maybe these people didn’t have anything to go back to where they came from.” He nudges Castiel pointedly with his elbow and grins. “Sometimes that happens. You go away thinking you’re escaping for a week of sun and surf and instead, you meet a charming, stunningly handsome local, fall in love and after a week fighting for your lives in the abject wilderness, live happily ever after.” 

Sam doesn’t even try to conceal his eye roll. “Sure, Dean. But these people, they have things in common. No friends or family looking for them. Gone without a trace. People can _find_ Cas, if they want to, he’s not missing. These people are _gone._ ” 

“Alright,” Dean relents, waving a hand for Sam to continue while he refills his glass from the Macallan bottle on the table, a gift from Sam and Jess. Castiel points a finger towards the fridge, _do you want ice?_ But Dean shakes his head no, leans in to kiss him on the cheek before turning his attention back to Sam. “What else you got?”

Sam’s focused now, almost appearing to shift into an excited, driven mode Castiel isn’t sure he’s seen on him before. He’s obviously very passionate about this. “Once I had a few names, I hacked their credit reports,” Sam explains. “Took me a while, but I was able to do it for most of the missing people. All four that I was ultimately able to run had recent charges on credit cards for a particular tourism group _and_ their bank accounts were cleaned out one to three days before they were scheduled to check out of their hotels. Credit cards maxed on cash advances, too.”

“Hmm,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “When you add in those details, that does sound extremely suspicious. I’m guessing you think this tourism group may be targeting loners, people they can prey on and take advantage of easily. Vacationers that no one will miss when they don’t ever go home.” 

“Crowley’s Island Adventures,” Dean reads off of the screen. “This them? Sounds sketchy as hell, without all the possible murder and mayhem. What the fuck is a Crowley? Some kind of tropical fish?” 

“Fergus Crowley,” Sam supplies. “He’s the owner, and unfortunately, his computers and his business aren’t hackable. That’s part of my issue, I can’t exactly gather information on him and do a file drop to the authorities when I can’t even get in. I did send the local police what I had—anonymously, of course—but they didn’t seem interested. Either they think like you, Dean, that these people went AWOL of their own free will, or they’re in this Crowley guy’s pocket. Either way, this doesn’t sit right with me. Who knows what happened to these people?”

“I think it’s a pretty ludicrous stretch to assume that four tourists _all_ disappeared of their own free will _and_ cleared their bank accounts after using the same excursion group. That is not Occam’s razor by any means,” Castiel muses. “Even if all four decided to stay in Hawaii, why would anyone drain their savings that way?” 

“Savings, checking, any other liquid assets, and credit cards,” Sam reminds them. “And it’s more than four, those are just the ones I can prove the pattern with. And the connection to Crowley,” he amends after a moment.

Sitting back and shaking his head, Dean adds, “Well, this is definitely disturbing, I’ll give you that. But I’m still not real clear on why you’re telling us all of this.” 

Sam licks his lips and keeps his eyes pointedly on the laptop screen. Something about his stiff demeanor and the way he hesitates sets a lightbulb off in his head and Castiel’s stomach drops. “Oh,” he says, as soon as he figures it out. “Sam, no.” 

“What?” Dean asks, confused, looking between his husband and his brother.

“Sam, we are not private investigators or police officers. We are completely ill-equipped to—”

“I _know._ ” Sam cuts him off, replying through clenched teeth. “I know that, Cas. I get that this is crazy, but I just… I can’t sleep, thinking about these people. The people that are inevitably going to be targeted next. These four went missing over the past six months, with increasingly shorter time-spans in between. If you add in the others, the ones I can’t prove Crowley had anything to do with, the timeline’s even scarier. Whoever these people are, they’re escalating, and no one is on to them, no one is even looking, and I just…” Sam trails off and shakes his head.

“Is someone going to explain this to me?” Dean demands, and Castiel puts a placating hand in between his shoulder blades.

“Sam,” he says gently, as kindly as possible because he _does_ understand. Just thinking about the fates of those poor travelers makes Castiel physically ill. He’s done plenty of his own lying awake at night, thinking about the others on their plane, their families, their screams as fire and heat filled the destroyed husk of the aircraft before they all went silent. No one knows survivors’ guilt (and shame, and fear) better than Castiel. Well, perhaps Dean. But that’s exactly why they have _no business_ getting anywhere near this vigilante project of Sam’s. “You can’t ask this of me, of your brother.”

“Wait,” Dean says, realization dawning across his face. “Are you serious? You want to, what? Go investigate what’s going on over there?” Dean laughs, incredulous. “Are we supposed to print fake FBI badges? Wear suits and knock on doors like, oh ho, good morning ma’am, we’re Agents Stills, Nash, and Young, please don’t look too closely at all of this because it’s basically low-budget LARPing—what the _fuck,_ Sam?” 

“I _know,_ ” Sam snaps, slamming the lid of his laptop shut and fisting both hands in his hair. “I know,” he says, a lot more quietly, and very sad. “I knew this is what you guys would say, I just… I had to ask.” He sounds so defeated that Castiel softens a little. 

“It’s truly horrible,” he allows. “What you uncovered. It’s understandable why you’d want to try and help. I just don’t know that—” Castiel glances over at Dean and finds him still gaping openly at Sam. “— _we_ are the best people to try and help. Perhaps with some more hacking, you could—”

“There’s nothing left to hack,” Sam says with a resigned sigh. “I told you. Crowley’s good. He’s not an over-confident idiot like Dick Roman. Whatever he’s doing, he’s either got it locked down behind firewalls I can’t even _see_ never mind break, or he’s keeping it offline altogether. My money’s on the latter, but there’s no real way to know. But anyway.” Sam slumps back into the couch and shrugs. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just, I remember what it felt like to do good with Roman. I know you guys felt good about it, too, but you weren’t a part of taking him down. I thought… maybe this could be cathartic, or something. And it’d be an experience we could have together, you know? Something special, before everything changes.”

“Dude,” Dean says. “You know we could just… _go_ on vacation. That would be special e-fuckin’-nough! We don’t gotta play cops and robbers just to make some memories.” For all his measured replies, Castiel can tell that Dean is still holding back, but he senses it’s not the time to push him. 

“You’re right,” Sam says anyway, effectively ending the conversation. “Listen, I’m gonna head to bed. I’m sorry, Dean. You too, Cas. I shouldn’t have—”

“No one is upset with you, Sam,” Castiel assures him and Sam cracks a half-smile, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he rounds the couches to shuffle off to the guest bedroom. When his door closes behind him, Dean turns to Castiel with a half-crazed look on his face.

“He’s lost it,” Dean says, but Castiel just presses his lips together and gives his husband a look. “No, seriously, Cas, how can you possibly think that he hasn’t totally fuckin’ _lost it?”_

With a one-shouldered shrug, Castiel stands and starts clearing the debris from the coffee table, carrying an armful over to the garbage can while Dean watches. “I understand,” Castiel says carefully. “The urge to help. His thoughts about catharsis.” He pauses. “And about wanting to do it with you. This is about more to him than just memories, or some missing strangers, for that matter.” After dumping the trash into the bin, Castiel straightens and puts a hand on his hip. “Sam may have deeper scars regarding our little ordeal than we realized. He did almost lose you, you know, and it appears he still harbors a lot of guilt about that.” 

As an unhappy noise escapes from his mouth, Dean stands and makes his way over to where Castiel is standing. “But the idea… it _is_ crazy, right?” His tone is interesting, and Castiel surveys Dean’s face, noting how he chews his lip, how his eyes dart nervously around Castiel’s own expression. There’s something… reluctant about the way he’s asking for validation, and Castiel would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

“Come,” he says. “Let’s you and I go and clear our heads. It will all look different in the morning.” 

“If you say so,” Dean replies grudgingly, though when Castiel takes his hand to lead him to the bedroom, he follows without complaint. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're going to Hawaii next time, hang in there ;)


	3. Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You two are seriously unbelievable,” Sam comments from behind them. “You know, I always kind of assumed you turned up the shmoop when I was around just to annoy me, but this is really how you are, isn’t it?”_
> 
> _“You know it, baby,” Dean replies breezily as they come to a stop in front of the elevator for the tower their room is in. “You have no idea how much you’re gonna regret sharing a room with us.”_
> 
> _“I’m realizing that very quickly,” Sam says._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more stage-setting fluff, enjoy it while it lasts because everything goes to shit very quickly next time, lol.

“It’s been a while,” Dean says softly, stretching luxuriously before trying to roll over and then promptly shifting back to his stomach with a wince. Castiel chuckles and slides down next to him in bed, resting his cheek on Dean’s bicep and his hand on Dean’s lower back, just above his reddened ass cheeks. “Don’t hold back on my account,” Dean encourages, full of false bravado Castiel sees right through.

“This is supposed to be aftercare,” Castiel replies with amusement lacing his voice, his hand soothing _up_ Dean’s back, definitely not down, no matter how much Dean wiggles his hips and tries to egg him on. “You’re being a brat.” 

“The brattiest,” Dean says brightly.

“You used to be so sweet,” Castiel complains, rolling onto his back and draping an arm dramatically over his forehead. “Woe is me. Reeled in by the siren and dashed against the rocks at the first opportunity.” 

Dean laughs and scoots after him, throwing a leg across Castiel’s thighs and hugging their torsos together. It’s silent for a moment and when Dean speaks again, he’s a lot more serious than Castiel expects. “I’m glad we can… you know, do this,” he says almost hesitantly, and while Castiel can’t see his face, he’s almost certain that Dean’s cheeks are pink. “I know you were joking just now, but you aren’t wrong. Weren’t wrong, when you said earlier about it clearing my head. Just want you to know, I, uh, I’m grateful, or whatever. You always said it was like I could _see_ you, who you really are, when no one else could. Well, I feel the same way. ‘Specially about this. I’ve never been able to really let go, really just…”

“Surrender?” Castiel supplies, running fingers through Dean’s hair. “It’s as fulfilling for me as it is for you, I hope that you know that. I love being able to give you this. Watching you, feeling you hand your stress and your struggles over to me. It’s true that before we met, I never, not in a million years, could have seen myself in a dominant, sexual role. But I barely saw myself as sexual at all, Dean. This is just one more thing you’ve helped me discover, something that was inside me all along, waiting to—” 

Dean interrupts him with an inelegant snort and Castiel flicks his ear. “Brat,” he murmurs.

“Can’t make comments about sex and what’s been ‘inside you’ and expect me not to laugh,” Dean declares unrepentantly before softening again. “But I hear you. And I love you for it,” he finishes gruffly and then coughs. “So… speaking of head-clearing, I was thinking.” 

“Oh, boy,” Castiel says, his hand stilling in the middle of Dean’s back. He’s known Dean for long enough to see what’s coming a mile away, mostly because he’s thinking the same thing, has been since before they even finished cleaning off their skin. 

“I think we should—”

“Consider Sam’s proposal,” Castiel finishes and Dean lifts his head, surprised. With a shrug, Castiel resumes caressing his back. “We aren’t the kind of people to walk away from something like this. People in need. It doesn’t appear as if anyone else is stepping up to the plate to help, so why not us?” 

“Well for starters, we have no idea what we’re doing,” Dean tells him.

“Hmm,” Castiel replies.

“It’ll be dangerous,” Dean continues, making the sheets rustle as he turns onto his elbows and stomach and looks down at where Castiel’s still laying against the pillow. 

“Hmm,” Castiel says again.

“And there’s the whole thing where the two of us—and apparently Sam, too—have been through enough for one lifetime. Complete with the PTSD and nightmares to show for it.” 

“It’s almost as if you weren’t going to make the same suggestion,” Castiel deadpans and Dean dips his head, pausing long enough to leave a lingering press of lips to Castiel’s shoulder. His smile can be felt more than seen. “No one should be made a victim in that way,” Castiel says, more firmly this time, less snark. “If we can… If there’s even a _chance_ we can stop that from happening, I think that I want to try.”

“Yea,” Dean says, lips moving against Castiel’s skin. “I do too.” He sighs and drops his head, snuggling back into Castiel’s side. “Thanks, Cas.” 

“We’ll protect each other. And we have Sam. We’ll help him get the proof that he needs, and then Sam will take them down legally. Maybe it won’t even be very dangerous. Either way, we’ll do it together.”

“Team Free Will?” Dean mutters sleepily, apparently done with the conscious world now that he’s aired his thoughts and received validation. 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies with a smile, patting in between Dean’s shoulder blades and settling back into the mattress to go to sleep as well. “Team Free Will. You, me… and Sam.”

***

“I changed my mind,” Dean announces anxiously, his fingers iron around Castiel’s wrist as he tries to drag him back towards the security checkpoint and beyond that, the airport door.

“Too late,” Castiel replies smoothly, twisting free only to wrap an arm around Dean’s waist to escort him forward. “We’re boarding now. One foot in front of the other. Besides, our checked bags are already loaded on the plane. If you leave now, your favorite pistol is going on to Hawaii without you.” 

“That Xanax didn’t even touch him,” Sam mutters from Castiel’s other side. 

“Should’ve just let me work it out at the airport bar like I wanted to,” Dean retorts. “Worked out well for me last time.” Castiel shoots him an incredulous look and Dean shrugs sheepishly. “I mean, eventually,” he adds. 

“We’re alright,” Castiel says, stopping to face Dean and to take his face in his hands. “These are nerves you moved past long ago. What are you really afraid of?” 

“The plane crashing,” Dean replies seriously before flashing a big grin. “Hey, you know that other thing you do when I’m nervous and can’t relax?” He wiggles his eyebrows and Castiel groans.

“Dean, was this whole thing an act to get a blowjob?” 

“No,” Dean replies defensively while Sam sticks fingers in his ears and hums loudly. 

“I’ll be on the plane,” he calls out, walking ahead to get in line at the gate, leaving Dean and Cas staring at each other in the middle of the terminal like they’re the only two people in the world.

“Maybe,” Dean amends, once Sam is comfortably out of earshot. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” Castiel says lowly, dropping his hand from Dean’s cheek to his bicep and tracing the lines of muscle there. “If you’re still feeling _anxious_ once we’re in the sky, you and I will sneak into the bathroom and join the mile high club.” The grin returns to Dean’s face and Castiel slips his hand into the one at Dean’s side. “Lie to me again in an attempt to elicit sexual favors and I will make you regret it,” he says sweetly and Dean shivers.

“You promise?”

“Brat,” Castiel murmurs.

***

Hawaii’s turquoise-blue waters are a visual shock, compared to the grey-tinged bleakness of the Bering Sea they’d left behind. Not to mention the mountains, which are green and lush and somehow tropical-looking, even from the air. The mountains in Alaska are white and fierce, majestic but vaguely threatening in their own way, especially from above. The sprawling hills adorning the island of Oahu are exactly the opposite, and Castiel abruptly understands (as he drapes himself across Dean’s lap to gawk out the window) why this place is known as the ultimate vacation spot. He wonders if it’s selfish to hope that they’ll be able to wrap this case quickly and spend the majority of their time doing fun, _touristy_ things. 

Force of habit, Castiel braces for a blast of cold air as the automatic doors in baggage claim slide open, looking around almost in surprise when it never comes. Instead, a balmy, humid-warm breeze sweeps across his face and through his hair, and Castiel has to admit, the sensation soothes his soul. Alaska is gorgeous and it’s home, but it’s also _hard_ and isolated and wild, and it’s been way too long since Castiel has been somewhere _soft._ He hadn’t truly realized how much he apparently _needs_ this escape. Even the short amount of time he spends standing on the sidewalk with Sam, waiting in the afternoon warmth for Dean to bring around their rented car, starts the process of chipping away at Castiel’s tough outer shell. 

By the time Dean pulls over and parks the silver Ford Escape Castiel _knows_ he’s going to bitch endlessly about, he’s feeling as if nothing could spoil his mood. That feeling is only buoyed by Dean stepping out, stripped down from the flannel and jacket he was wearing on the plane, all the way to a clingy white t-shirt that Castiel has half a mind to track down and thank the manufacturers for bringing it into existence. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says, a little dreamily as Dean rounds the car to crowd into his space and slip an arm around his waist. Just as their lips are about to touch, Sam gags and makes a noise like he’s trying not to vomit.

“You get one freebie with that shit, Sammy,” Dean warns him, still less than an inch away from Castiel’s face. “Here on out, I’m keeping track so me and Cas can repay you at your wedding.”

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam grumbles, but Castiel can see that he’s smiling as he loads their luggage into the trunk of the car. The atmosphere here must be catching.

“Bitch,” Dean shoots back before pressing his mouth against Castiel’s enthusiastically, with zero care for Sam or whoever else might be watching. When they pull apart, Castiel sighs happily and Dean squeezes his hip before stepping away to get back inside the car. “Let’s go, so we can ditch Sam and christen the mattress before dinner.”

“This is everything I dreamed it would be,” Castiel says, somewhat facetiously, but seriously enough that Sam rolls his eyes from where he’s crammed uncomfortably into the back seat. He doesn’t complain though, so either he’s heeding Dean’s warning (unlikely, knowing Sam) or he’s just that relieved to be here, on the way to hopefully making a difference and taking down some bad guys.

Even that thought feels good to Castiel today, and he chalks it up to the warm, sunny weather and the fact that, mission or not, they _are_ on vacation. “So what is the plan?” Castiel ventures as Dean checks his blind spot and pulls out onto the road, navigating past dividers full of palm trees and towards the hotel Sam booked less than ten minutes after Dean had let him know they were in. 

His face lighting up, Sam leans forward in between the front seats, his shoulder restraint protesting so much that Sam just ducks out of it. He’s clearly excited and Castiel, for his part, finds it heart-warming. Sam and Dean are both extremely _good_ men, and Castiel feels lucky to be included in their little family. “So get this,” Sam says. “From what I can tell, there have been at least eight disappearances of this kind—total. The four whose credit reports and cards I was able to hack could be linked directly to Crowley’s, as you know. Of those, two were staying at the Hilton Hawaiian Village on this island. And while I couldn’t hack the remaining four, one of the newspaper articles published mentioned a third was staying at the Hilton, too. Point being, I did some digging, and Crowley’s has a sales and booking outpost right next to the same hotel. Seems like as good a place as any to start.”

Castiel watches the scenery go by, taking in the fog settling over the distant mountains, their height and majesty contrasted starkly by the modern-looking city stretching in front of them. “So that’s where we’re staying, the Hilton?” 

“Yep,” Sam affirms with a nod. “If nothing else, it’s a _really_ nice place. Beachfront, several pools—”

“Bars?” Dean interrupts, glancing at Sam via the rearview mirror.

“Yes, Dean,” Sam replies patiently. “But anyway, I thought we’d check in, get something to eat, relax a little before we really dig in tomorrow. Since we know there’s an actual, physical office to check out, I thought one of you should go down there and plant some seeds in the morning, then we’ll go from there.”

“I’ll do it,” Dean volunteers.

“And while you do, I’ll follow up on some local leads,” Sam continues. “Talk to the hotel staff in person, the reporter who wrote the articles, maybe even the police, we’ll see.”

“Why can’t Dean and I go to the office together?”

Sam opens his mouth to reply but Dean beats him to it. “Cas, these guys are targeting lonely losers. People who came on on vacation by themselves, that don’t have any family or friends at home to miss them when they never come back. No couples have been taken, right Sam?” 

“Uh, right,” Sam agrees, looking surprised that Dean was even listening to the things he’s been sharing at all. “Dean’s right,” he repeats, snapping back to focus again. “I mean, if you both want to go, you can, but you should probably pretend to be strangers. Actually, that’s not a bad idea. If they think you’re _both_ lonely losers, maybe we get them to book you on the three-hour murder tour together. While no actual _couples_ have been targeted, there were at least two occurrences of two tourists going missing at the same time.”

“I’d just like to take this opportunity to voice my displeasure at being referred to as a ‘lonely loser,’” Castiel complains. “Plenty of people go on vacation by themselves. It’s a sign of—of _confidence_. And… security in oneself, and—”

“Yea, yea,” Dean cuts him off. “You were the epitome of cool when you went on vacation by yourself and spent the whole week doing nothing but pruning in the hot tub and reading bodice rippers. Listen, baby, you’re attractive and have like, _all_ the good qualities but you are not gonna sell us on the benefits of solo vacationing. Capiche?” 

“I capiche,” Castiel grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. “I still resent the implication.” 

“Duly noted,” Dean says, not bothering to stifle his smirk. “Love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Castiel replies petulantly, glaring out the window. 

“ _Any_ way,” Sam interjects, clearing his throat, “You should play like you’re strangers, to increase the chances that they try and target you both.”

“That’s kind of a hot idea, actually,” Dean remarks, slapping Castiel’s thigh with the back of his hand. That earns him a reluctant, wry smile in return, since Castiel’s not quite done being annoyed at Dean’s mocking. On the other hand, the thought of trying a little public roleplay _is_ amusing, and of course, Dean’s all too happy to provide a preview. He elbows Castiel and grins his most charming smile, splitting his attention somewhat precariously between Castiel and the road. “Well, hello there, handsome man I’ve definitely never seen before,” Dean says. “Fancy a quick boff in the loo?”

Castiel bursts out laughing. “Dean, why the hell would you be British?” 

Dean’s face drops for a moment before he recovers and shrugs his shoulders carelessly. “Accents really do it for me lately. Maybe I was hoping you’d be Russian—a hot mobster, running from the law, taking a quick break from his life of crime to manhandle me up against the wall and—”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters, rubbing a hand across his face and sinking back into his own seat once again. “There’s literally no way you two are going to pull this off. Just go separately, at least we won’t risk Dean’s libido blowing our entire cover in one shot.” 

“Relax, Sammy,” Dean scoffs. “Trust me, I know how to mix business and pleasure. You and your hippie hair just go do the interview thing, leave the undercover work to the professionals.” He looks pointedly in the mirror before shooting a wink over at Castiel. 

“Oh yes,” Castiel says flatly. “Professionals. How could this go wrong?” 

They’re distracted from discussing any further business by the GPS on Dean’s phone informing them that they’re arriving at the hotel. As they pull up to the tall residential tower set right into the sand, the Pacific Ocean is visible, peeking out from beyond still more palm trees on the other side of the building. While Castiel has never particularly thought of himself as a beach person, per se, the tranquil blue-green waves _call_ to him, and he’s surprised to discover a simmering anxious desire to dive in and relax. 

The hotel itself is stunning, and Castiel finds himself getting distracted from the moment they step out of the car and into the open, airy reception space. Leaving the details to Dean and Sam, he wanders around looking at art and peering through to where the far end of the lobby opens to the patios containing the pools, bars, and the beach beyond. Dean comes to retrieve him when he’s ready, threading a hand into one of Castiel’s, presumably so that he won’t wander off or into something. He’s just _that_ preoccupied with admiring the decor, and once they’re outside again, the stunning view. Just beyond the lobby is a path that leads to a multi-tiered pool area surrounded by plush seating and beyond that, a picturesque white-sand beach. 

Barely stifling the moan of want that tries to escape from his lips, Castiel has to be forcibly led away from all the water. “C’mon, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs. “We’ll come back down in a bit. Hey, maybe we can order from the bar, eat dinner next to the pool. Then you can swim all you want and I can stuff my face.” 

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says sincerely, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. 

“You two are seriously unbelievable,” Sam comments from behind them. “You know, I always kind of assumed you turned up the shmoop when I was around just to annoy me, but this is really how you are, isn’t it?” 

“You know it, baby,” Dean replies breezily as they come to a stop in front of the elevator for the tower their room is in. “You have _no idea_ how much you’re gonna regret sharing a room with us.” 

“I’m realizing that very quickly,” Sam says, slightly horrified. 

“There’s a separate bedroom,” Castiel reassures his brother-in-law. “You won’t even know we’re there when the door is closed.” At that, Dean throws back his head and laughs loudly, and Sam turns a little green.

“If I see anything I can’t unsee, I’m totally letting you two get murdered,” Sam threatens. 

“Hey,” Dean says cheerily as the elevator dings their arrival at their floor. “This whole damn thing was _your_ idea, Sammy. Better sit back and enjoy the ride.” 

***

They don’t have a chance to christen the mattress before Sam bursts into the bedroom with a hand clamped firmly over his eyes, demanding Dean and Castiel accompany him downstairs for a swim and something to eat. 

“You can look,” Castiel tells him from where he’s occupied folding a pair of pants and tucking them away inside the dresser. Dean, while he’s swapped jeans for board shorts, is spread out on the bed, innocently chewing on a twizzler with his free hand tucked behind his head. He raises an eyebrow and grins cheekily at Sam when the younger man peeks warily between his fingers. 

“Thank god,” Sam says with a sigh, arms dropping to his sides. “Come on, I’m starving.” 

Putting his swimsuit on was the first thing Castiel had done, so he tucks their room key into the mesh pocket in his shorts and follows Sam out the door without hesitation. The rest of their evening is filled with swimming and good food, the three of them taking turns splashing and drinking and stuffing themselves silly with nearly one of everything on the bar menu, food _and_ mixed drinks. Tipsy and happier than he’s been in ages, Castiel finds himself wound around Dean’s torso, floating together in the gentle current of the sheltered saltwater lagoon off of the beach. The water in the natural little pool is fed by the Pacific Ocean but safe from any wild waves, perfect for basking in each other’s company as the sun goes down over the horizon. 

“I think I’d like to try paddleboarding,” Castiel muses as Dean noses at his collarbone, nipping gently. 

“I think I’d like to take you to bed,” Dean replies without missing a beat.

“We’re in paradise,” Castiel protests. “And that’s all you can think about?” When Dean pulls back and looks up, his lashes are heavy and dark from the water, his eyes a bright, verdant green that snatches Castiel’s breath from his chest. “Oh,” he says quietly, melting a little and tightening his arms around Dean’s neck. “Nevermind, I take it back. Let’s go to bed.” 

With a sultry smile, Dean locks arms behind Castiel’s back and tries to stand, but ends up toppling them over into the water with a big splash. Castiel comes up sputtering to find him looking sheepish. “Shit, Cas,” he says. “You’ve really bulked up.” 

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, sloshing forward through the water to grab Dean around the waist and lift him up, throwing him unceremoniously over his shoulder, soaking wet shorts and all. Dean’s hands scrabble for purchase as water runs down Castiel’s chest in streams. They eventually settle on Castiel’s traps, which are tensing and flexing with the effort of carrying Dean, who is certainly not small himself. 

“ _H_ _ey!”_ Dean yelps. “This is humiliating! Cas, put me down, I—Oh. Damn, you are cut. Where did these things come from? Alright, this is fucking hot, walk faster.” 

Thankfully, when they retrieve Dean’s phone from the sand, it has a message from Sam, promising exactly two hours of privacy in the room and stating his expectations that they be finished desecrating the space by the time he gets back. “ _Also, not on my bed, Dean!!”_ the message finishes, and Dean scoffs, newly returned to his own two feet but still dripping wet. 

“His bed is a pull-out couch,” Dean complains. “He can’t make the couch off-limits.” 

Rolling his eyes, Castiel steers Dean through the hotel and into the just-arrived elevator, pressing the button for their floor. “We have plenty of other spaces to desecrate,” he assures him. “I’m quite sure we won’t miss it.” 

“Oooh,” Dean replies with an eyebrow wiggle as he crowds into Castiel’s space, hands finding his hips. “Balcony?”

“Yes,” Castiel continues, tipping his head to the side to better allow Dean to mouth at his neck. “That convenient ottoman at the foot of our bed.” 

“The jacuzzi tub?”

“And the rain shower.”

At Castiel’s final suggestion, Dean’s head pops up and he narrows his eyes. “Shower sex is complicated,” he says warily. “Last time we did it in the shower, I couldn’t walk right for a week. And _not_ in the good way, my knees looked like overripe blueberries.” 

“Very sexy overripe blueberries,” Castiel assures him seriously, doing his best to keep a straight face as he pats Dean’s head. Before his husband can continue complaining, the elevator door dings open and Castiel grabs Dean’s hand to drag him out and down the hallway to their room. He gets the door open and yanks Dean inside immediately, slamming it shut and shoving Dean up against it, grabbing a fistful of hair and kissing him roughly. “I’d like you to top,” he declares, and Dean’s eyes go a little glazed. 

“Whatever you want, sunshine,” he replies, seemingly casual, but the rough edge to his voice betrays the want he’s feeling. 

Some days, Castiel is still surprised by the depth of emotion he’s capable of where Dean is concerned. There are times when he expects it to up and disappear, disintegrating on the wind like it was never there to begin with. While six years in, there’s been absolutely no sign of any such thing happening, an entire lifetime of feeling broken at worst, sexually inadequate at best, is hard to completely unlearn. But Dean… Dean fills in all of his empty spaces, and never lets him down. Dean _loves_ him fiercely, respects him, does all the things Castiel needs him to do so that their bond stays strong. And as such, Castiel’s affection for Dean, his _desire_ to be close to him physically, only seems to grow stronger. 

With a soft kiss, Castiel excuses himself to the bathroom to clean up. It’s not like he takes a _long_ time, but some things just shouldn’t be rushed. Regardless, when he comes back out, Dean is sprawled naked on his back, one arm splayed across his face and the other drooping over the edge of the bed as he snores away. Castiel sighs and closes the blinds, rolling his eyes affectionately. It _is_ later than it seems considering that the sun just set, well after eight and they were all up early to travel. 

Before he lays down, Castiel shoots Sam a text, letting him know that it’s safe to come back and ignoring his surprised (probably teasing) reply of, _“Already?!”_

Tucking himself into Dean’s side, Castiel inhales the scent of salt, suntan lotion, and Dean beneath it all. As he drifts off, his only lament is that he can’t hear the waves’ rhythmic crashing lulling him to sleep. 

_Paradise,_ he thinks. _Whatever happens with the case, this is paradise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a narrative reason things haven't gotten onscreen explicit yet, hang in there. :-P


	4. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester has some regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the least amount of words in the most chapters i've ever posted, lmao. i'm sorry! from here on out they're long, like 7-8k each.

Things move quickly starting early the next morning. While Sam sets off to follow-up on his local leads, Castiel and Dean regroup and collectively decide that only one of them should go down and check out Crowley’s little storefront, at least to begin with. As it turns out, there’s an outdoor mall of sorts tucked right into the side of the hotel, off of the beach. It’s extremely convenient, filled with souvenir shops, boutiques with swimwear and other clothing, and more than one excursion group selling experiences ranging from ziplining to scuba diving. Both Dean and Castiel agree that it’s the perfect location to lure in unsuspecting tourists—especially single, perhaps lonely travelers looking for ways to get the most out of their solo vacation. 

All of that considered, it seems likely that Crowley’s probably also does a solid business on the up-and-up, seeing as how their main advertised feature is a private island paradise that even _looks_ too good to be true. Sam had done enough research prior to the trip to determine that the private island is real, and that it services multiple tour groups per day. Hundreds, possibly thousands of people in any given year. That seemed sort of strange to Castiel, who wondered aloud why this Crowley person would risk such a stable, consistent business for a few extra dollars.

“Well, for one thing,” Sam had told him, “This Mildred Baker who went missing four months ago? She was a millionaire. I mean, sure, some of her assets weren’t liquid, but her bank accounts had several hundred thousand in each, and Crowley took it all. Well, I assume he did. The money was forwarded to an untraceable offshore account. There are actually news stories from back home about her grandkids—No one cares that she’s missing, they’re all just accusing each other about the money, everyone thinks one of them is responsible. Messy.” 

Castiel makes a mental note to add _rich_ to his cover, when he eventually needs it to try and set himself up as bait, and tells Dean to do the same. 

While Dean heads off on his first undercover mission, Castiel settles at one of the hotel’s outdoor restaurants for breakfast. It was relaxing to wake up and find the sun doing the same, a true reset to his circadian rhythms that Castiel hadn’t perhaps realized how much he needed. Now, as he relaxes in his chair and sips coffee while waiting on the large breakfast spread he’d ordered (Dean will be along eventually, and undoubtedly more than ready to stuff his face), he’s hard-pressed to feel anything but at peace. 

Perhaps Castiel should be more anxious, more nervous over what they’re all about to do, but the danger and excitement just feel a little bit distant. After all, he’s here in Hawaii with his loving husband and one of his best friends, he’s well-rested and about to be well-fed—everything else feels like it’ll work itself out. Of course that thought process is premature, but Castiel’s already looking forward to the feeling of satisfaction when the local authorities parade this Crowley and his minions off in handcuffs, justice having been served. It never occurs to him to doubt that it will be. 

***

_Twenty-Four Hours Later_

_Sam_

Despite all the planning that had gone into this moment, it’s hard for Sam to stand by and watch. As the boat carrying Dean and Cas speeds away from the port with a white, foamy wake trailing behind, the younger Winchester has to fight a twisting in his stomach that insists they’re doing the wrong thing, the twitching in his legs that tells him to _run,_ to follow them, to make them come back. 

Dean’s made jokes, ever since Sam brought up the whole concept of _investigating_ to begin with, about how Sam is incorrigible once he has an idea in his head. The truth is, that’s Dean, describes him to a damn T. Sending Cas and Dean to play tourist and snoop around undercover in Crowley’s shop had been one thing, but Sam never _really_ suspected they’d want to take their little roleplay to the next level. Well, the non-sexy kind, anyway. And truthfully, Sam would almost rather have his eyeballs melted from having to witness that than let the two of them go off on their own the way Dean insisted. 

But that’s exactly what happened—Dean had an idea, and an accompanying hair up his ass, and now Sam was getting left behind, helpless to defend and protect his brother from the harm almost _certainly_ headed his way.

_Again._

This trip was supposed to be cathartic, in a way. Sam knows Dean and Cas still occasionally see a therapist about their previous ordeal, has heard Castiel wake up in the night from his increasingly rare (but persistent) bad dreams. For Dean and Cas, that’s expected. What Sam’s older brother doesn’t know, is that he’s struggled with much of the same. Quietly, while feeling he has no right to put that burden on his family, Sam’s had nightmares and flashbacks all his own. He’s felt guilt that Dean didn’t feel he could confide in him, that he was on that damn plane to begin with and Sam didn’t even know that he was coming, that he didn’t save him sooner, get to him and Cas quicker. 

The conscious part of his brain _knows_ he’s being ridiculous. There was no way he or Bobby could have done anything more than they did, any faster than they did it, to find Dean and get him rescued. Cas, too, for that matter. Sam knows that, he _knows._ But guilt is a tricky thing, and after a lifetime of being cared for and provided for by Dean, Sam can’t help but feel he let his brother down, the first time he _really_ needed him. Not that Dean has ever made him feel that way—if anything, six years later Dean still won’t shut up about what a hero he thinks Sam is. For taking down Roman, for hacking his GPS, all of it.

And maybe that’s how they came to be _here,_ now. Something in Sam is desperate to feel that way again, for himself. To be _useful,_ to make a difference in the world, to make his brother— _brothers—_ proud. It’s hard, especially after watching Dean and Cas’ recoveries, to know that there might be people out there suffering and dying in the same sort of way. Traumatized, made into victims by people who are more monster than human. What kind of person could just sit by, knowing that’s happening? Not Sam. Not Dean or Cas either, apparently.

 _How dangerous could it be, anyway?_ Sam had thought, drunkenly contemplating abstract plans from Dean and Cas’ couch in Salcha. _Low risk, high return._ He remembers giggling a little, his brain wandering into non-sequitur jokes about his former economics class and stock profiles that he can’t quite remember in the stark light of day. It had all just seemed so clear—an easy sort of vigilante case, where he’d get to spend time in paradise with his brothers, trick a few assholes into incriminating themselves, and watch from poolside lounges as the bad guys were led away in cuffs.

When Dean had called him yesterday afternoon and declared that he and Cas were booked on one of Crowley’s signature tours together the next morning, that was when Sam began to realize he’d gotten them all in deep. As Dean had rambled on, recounting with glee the story of how he’d set the stage and then how he and Cas had gone back and played strangers, how _sure_ he was sure that the “chick” manning the counter had bought it, Sam frantically wracked his brain for a way to change Dean’s mind. 

Ultimately, he’d been upfront with Dean. Well, _after_ he’d walked in on Dean and Cas “playing strangers” in their hotel room, on _his_ couch, and nearly had to bleach his retinas, but the point stands. Sam sat Dean and Cas down and told them _firmly_ and with no ambiguity that from all of his research, all of his interviews, and all of his own gut inclinations, they should _not_ get on that boat. 

“Crowley has a lot to lose,” he’d said. “This operation is a lot more involved than it looks, it _has_ to be. Please, it’s not worth it,” he’d almost begged. “We’ll find another way, Dean. You guys shouldn’t put yourselves in harm’s way.” 

But true to form, Dean was impossible to dissuade. In fact, he’d scoffed and waved Sam off like he was warning about the dangers of not using sunscreen, and not about the possibility that they were walking into a life-threatening trap. 

“Have you met me?” Dean boasted, cocky and sure, and even Cas had grinned. “Me an’ Cas will both be packing heat. We’ll carry a voice recorder, too. When they jump us, we’ll be ready. I already asked about the crew on the excursion; it’s _one dude,_ Sam. We can take one dude easy.” Dean had leaned forward with his elbows on his knees; _so_ earnest, so eager, so positive that this would be a cakewalk. “And then you’ll have proof, _and_ me and Cas will be able to give a firsthand account to the cops. Lazy fuckers won’t be able to ignore that. It’ll be all over for Crowley and the three of us can go get some more of those little umbrella drinks. Put our toes in the sand. All the evidence you have plus two survivor testimonials? They’re screwed.”

Everything Dean said was spoken like a foregone conclusion and Dean himself was surprisingly unshakeable in his belief that this was the right thing to do. Still unsure, Sam felt he didn’t have much choice but to relent, something he’s starting to regret more and more as Dean and Cas’ boat disappears into the horizon. Per Sam’s insistence, Dean has his GPS unit on and it’s already logged in on Sam’s end. Plus, Sam took pictures from afar of the two of them boarding the boat marked “Crowley’s Island Adventures,” with the crewperson escorting them in clear view, just to be on the safe side.

Reluctantly, he has to admit, so far, things seem on target. Dean’s GPS location puts them just offshore of Crowley’s private island, exactly where they should be. Distantly, Sam wonders if the whole thing will end up a bust. Maybe Dean and Cas are snorkeling with dolphins right now, or otherwise enjoying all the perks Crowley’s adult paradise has to offer. With a grimace, Sam decides not to think about that too closely, though it’s certainly better than the extreme alternative, the version of this story where Dean and Cas are already dead at the bottom of the ocean. 

Without much else to do but wait, Sam goes back to their shared hotel room and sets up his laptop, watching the GPS signal like a hawk, though mostly, all it does is blink back at him reassuringly. It moves a little at one point, farther off the coast of Crowley’s island, but stops again and remains there. That’s curious, but not overly concerning. Sam sends a few text messages to Dean, but they all go unanswered, which is also anxiety-inducing but could have any number of mundane explanations. 

By the early afternoon, Sam’s eyes are starting to blur from screen fatigue, but he can’t stop himself from flipping between the visual GPS tracker and the files he has on Crowley. That is, until there’s a knock at the door. 

Heart in his throat, Sam starts, looking around the room as if the shadowed corners might be hiding answers and finding himself unable to stop imaging the worst. _It’s Crowley himself, come to take him out._ That would be his luck, wouldn’t it? But a quick glance through the peephole reveals nothing but a hotel employee, smiling genially as Sam opens the door with lingering caution. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” the man says, holding out his hand to offer a flyer that says _Storm Operating Procedure and Recommendations._ “Nothing to overly worry about, but there is a significant storm system headed this way. It will likely begin to hit us around four PM, and the hotel will be running on a limited capacity for your safety and ours. If you’ll just look here,” the man points to the middle of the page, “these are the restaurants that will be open this evening. The storm is expected to end around nine PM and the hotel will resume normal operations at that time.” The man moves his finger to a list at the bottom of the page. “These are some recommendations for your party’s safety during the storm. The windows are hurricane-proof and no flooding is expected, so I assure you that you will be safe in your room. May I answer any questions for you?” 

Sam blinks and shakes his head, somewhat thrown by this turn of events. Checking the weather wasn’t something that had even occurred to him, not in _Paradise_. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to Dean or Cas either, and it’s a rookie move Sam can’t believe they all made. “Uh,” he starts, clearing his throat when his voice comes out a little broken. “If—my brothers are on an excursion right now, is there anything the hotel can do to ensure they know about the storm, that they make it back before it starts?” 

“Absolutely,” the man assures him, pulling out a pen and paper. “If you’ll just give me the names of your brothers and the excursion company they are out with, we will check on them. But don’t you worry, I am sure that they know and are on their way back now. This is not uncommon, not at all. Hazards of island living, and the excursion companies are quite used to tracking the weather and planning accordingly.” He finishes his clearly practiced spiel with a warm smile, and Sam tries his best to return it, to not succumb to the sinking feeling that’s once again settling in his stomach.

“Thank you,” he manages, providing the information requested and then closing the door after the man promises to update him shortly. Slumping against it, Sam then pushes off and makes his way to their balcony, shoving the heavy curtains aside to look out. Sure enough, there are dark, ominous clouds brewing on the horizon, in the same direction he watched Dean and Cas take off on the boat. 

The phone rings not a half-hour later and the front desk assures Sam that all of Crowley’s tours will be returning shortly. Sam hopes that means someone from Crowley’s contacted Dean and Cas’ boat—if they discover that Dean and Cas aren’t the lonely, friendless tourists they’re pretending to be, at least they’ll return them unharmed. Still, something is pinging Sam’s senses, the alarm bells in the back of his head, and he can’t figure out exactly why, because everything _seems_ on the up and up, at least according to information he has from the hotel. 

Even Dean’s GPS is doing exactly what it should be doing. As Sam watches, it heads back towards the port they departed from, and that’s enough for Sam to switch to mobile and head down there himself, anxious to see his brother with his own two eyes.

Outside, the wind has picked up, the sky overhead is gray, and the first spit-flecks of rain begin hitting the ground and Sam’s cheeks. Down at the pier, the normally docile, turquoise waters are much darker and eerily choppy. It’s not the utopian scenery Sam’s become used to over the past two days, and the sight doesn’t sit any better than the persistent worried feeling already occupying his gut. 

True to their word, Sam sees four, five of Crowley’s boats pull back into port, unloading happy and sunburned passengers that hug and tip their guides before running from the rain towards shelter. The storm is hot on the boats’ heels, churning the sea and whipping the waves into a frenzy. Sam’s hair slaps in his face and blows back and forth across his eyes until he’s forced to hold it back with a hand. The boats all look similar, but Dean and Cas don’t emerge from any of them. Using his phone, Sam tries to confirm that Dean’s GPS made it back, only to watch it blip and disappear right off of his screen. 

“No,” Sam says out loud, in disbelief. “No, no!” He looks around frantically, walking down onto the pier even as the rain gets heavier. “Dean!” He calls out, but there’s no answer, just the increasing volume of rain hitting hard surfaces, boats bumping against their moorings, and the sound of the pier itself, rattling in the turbulent water. As Sam shouts Dean’s name, the wind washes his voice away nearly as soon as it leaves his mouth. 

Thunder rumbles overhead and the crew members from the boats that made it back rush up the pier past him, back in the direction of the hotel and the outdoor shopping mall. As a group of them goes by, Sam takes notice that one of them is leaning heavily on another, seeming to limp as the duo makes their way past him. Unfortunately, with the rain and wind in his face, Sam can’t tell for sure if it’s the man who took Dean and Cas out earlier. Cursing himself for leaving his camera in the room, the one with the man’s pictures on it, Sam follows at a distance, his hair no longer obscuring his vision since it’s now wet and weighted down. 

The pair of guides disappear inside Crowley’s storefront and Sam feels lost, desperate. He can’t very well follow them in and demand to know where Dean and Cas are. That would be downright suicidal. Instead, Sam rushes back to his room, shaking water off like a dog before he grabs and checks the camera. With a huge swell of trepidation, he zooms in on the crewmember’s face and sees that it _is_ the same man, the one that was limping. He’d come off a boat with several other men wearing soaking wet _Crowley’s_ shirts, but no Dean or Cas. 

Fisting hands in his hair and trying frantically to think, Sam quickly rules out the idea that Dean and Cas are still on that boat. It had a cabin, but the cabin was small, and the men wouldn’t have left prisoners alone. 

This is not looking good, but Sam _refuses_ to entertain the idea that Dean and Cas are already dead. _Refuses._ Dean is smart and resourceful, and Cas didn’t live through everything he’s been through to die like that. They must have gotten away, they must be hiding somewhere. He takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly, measured.

_Think. Don’t panic. What would Dean do?_

_The boat!_ Sam realizes, with not a small amount of relief. That can’t have been the same one they left on, there wasn’t anyone else on it and certainly not enough concealed space to hide three fully-grown men that Dean and Cas wouldn’t notice. The name on the back of the boat Sam saw dock at the pier was _“The Lilith,”_ and his pictures show very clearly that Dean and Cas left on _“The Queen Rowena.” Alright,_ Sam reasons, the storm in his brain beginning to calm. If the man he saw leave with Dean and Cas came back on someone _else’s_ boat, that means the original one may still be out there, somewhere. It gives Sam hope, something to cling to, that Dean and Cas got away.

Now, all he has to do is find them.

But with this storm moving in, the GPS a loss, and no sign of Dean or Cas anywhere with neither of them answering their phones, Sam only sees one option left to do that.

It’s time to go to the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bridge chapter, kind of like how "Bobby" was in the original--don't be annoyed that you don't see certain things from Cas/Dean's POV, i PROMISE we will circle back and you will see them (like Dean and Cas being cute pretend-strangers) in a surprising way down the road. I wouldn't deprive you of fake-not-husbands, lol. 
> 
> Next time and for the foreseeable future, we're with Dean & Cas on the island. :) also, the chapters get significantly longer from here on out--like, 7-8k/shot, so hopefully, people are looking forward to that. :) this story just needed a lot of setup.


	5. Stranded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. We ready? Let's do this.  
> Most likely, we have arrived at the part y'all signed up for. :)
> 
> Chapter specific warnings for (SPOILERS):  
> -canon-typical descriptions of injuries and subsequent management (semi-graphic description of stitching)  
> -PTSD/nightmares/flashbacks-style panic from Cas  
> -amnesiac Cas, not story-tagged because it's event-specific (he doesn't forget Dean or who he is-don't worry) and I didn't want to panic or mislead anyone.  
> -alcohol and cute drunk Dean

_Blue._ Above him and to his right, as far as the eye can see, just as soon as Castiel opens his eyes. _Oh God,_ he thinks. _It’s happening again._ Bile rising in his throat, Castiel fights down panic and the urge to vomit, searching his blurry and bleary memories to try and discover what the hell happened and how he got here. It’s all cloudy, his memories unreachable as if they’re locked behind some sort of foggy haze, and so Castiel rolls onto his side, wincing at the stinging of his skin, the ache in his muscles. 

The ground below him is firm but shifting, grainy against his arms and hands and cheek. As Castiel blinks his eyes open, it’s all he can do to not allow the groan that slips out of his mouth to turn into emptying his stomach. _Sand._ He’s laying on sand and it’s all over him. At least, if the uncomfortable, gritty sensation plaguing his exposed skin (and some that is not) is any indication. Aside from that, his shirt and shorts are half-dry, sticky and chafing, and he’s close enough to the water that the waves are lapping gently at his toes. 

Rubbing a hand across his face, Castiel wracks his brain, unable to _think,_ the pounding in his skull only receding slightly as he takes a few deep breaths. The last thing he remembers is eating breakfast at the cafe, waiting for Dean to return from his “undercover” venture to Crowley’s. _How did he end up in the water? Did he fall asleep on the beach? Where is Dean?!_

Against his head’s most valiant protests, Castiel forces himself to roll onto his back again and look behind him, expecting to see the hotel pool area set back from the beach and beyond that, the hotel itself. “Oh, shit,” Castiel murmurs as he takes in a definitively unbroken line of trees bordering the sand and the low mountains that rise up in the distance behind them. “Oh, no.” 

Suddenly desperate to find Dean, Castiel bolts upright, ignoring the lightning-flash of pain that jolts through his head and behind his eyes, aside from allowing himself a reflexive wince. He struggles to his feet, legs threatening to give out underneath him, weak and heavy like he’s been working out for hours without a break. He sits back down to regroup, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead until the world stops spinning. “Dean!” Castiel calls out, looking up and then down the beach frantically, but all he sees is a long stretch of sand that curves around into a protective tip maybe a half-mile away. There are no signs of life; no beach chairs or shuttered bars or trash, though that in and of itself is not worrying—Oahu has several secluded beaches where human intrusion is kept to a minimum. He must be on one of those.

_But where is Dean?_

“Cas!” 

The distressed yell comes from the direction of the ocean itself, and as Castiel squints against the blinding sun reflecting off of the water, he can see a figure splashing through the shallows, waving furiously. 

“Dean,” he murmurs in relief, pushing up off of the sand and lurching to his feet again, determined to stay vertical whether his head likes it or not. The world spins some more, Castiel’s entire face still pounding like he took a mean right hook to it, but nothing short of an apocalypse could keep him from getting to Dean in this particular moment. He shuffles somewhat unsteadily into the ankle-deep tide, groaning as the spray of saltwater stings the various open cuts and abrasions on his skin. As scared as he is, Castiel tries not to focus on the fact that he doesn’t remember getting _any_ of said cuts at all.

As Dean moves closer, the sun no longer prevents Castiel from focusing on him properly and his appearance makes Castiel’s stomach drop. Dean’s beautiful face is bruised all over one side and blood drips from his hairline all the way down his neck. The thick red dribble is smeared and diluted where it pools at the top of his chest, watery where it soaks into the neck of Dean’s t-shirt. From what Castiel can see of his limbs, they’re equally cut and banged up, just like his own. _What the hell happened to them?_

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, flinging himself into Dean’s chest and squeezing with both arms around his torso. He buries his face in Dean’s neck, uncaring about the way their blood is undoubtedly mixing, the way his own head still begs for him to lie down, the way his whole body aches and he imagines Dean’s does too. When Castiel pulls back, it’s to cup Dean’s face in both hands, tilting it to the side to better visualize the jagged cut at the top of Dean’s forehead. His fingers skate gently over the red-purple bruise still forming over Dean’s brow and outer cheekbone and he makes a low noise. “Dean, what happened? We need to get you to a hospital, how far are we from a resort?”

As Dean leans forward to drop their foreheads together, he half-laughs, sounding miserable and bitter. _That’s not good,_ Castiel thinks, squinting and nearly crossing his eyes to keep Dean’s face in focus while it’s so close. “Yea, right,” Dean huffs, but then his head snaps up, eyes narrowing in concern as he studies Castiel’s face, eyes tracking up to what Castiel assumes is an equally nasty gash on his own temple. “Wait, you’re serious? Cas, what’s the last thing you remember?” 

Dropping the rope Castiel hadn’t even noticed was in his hand, Dean tips Castiel’s head back by the chin and uses his fingers to pry his eyelids wide, peering this way and that until Castiel gets annoyed and shoves him off. “I’m fine,” he mutters, gesturing to Dean’s own face. “As fine as you, at any rate. But since you asked, the last thing I remember…” Castiel hesitates, almost not wanting to solve this particular mystery. “Breakfast, this morning. At the cafe, while you were checking out Crowley’s.” 

Dean gapes. “Break—oh, fuck,” he mutters, eyes wide before he snaps into action, grabbing Castiel around the waist and herding him towards the sand. “Cas, we need to—come on, you gotta sit down, we gotta get you water or something, I—”

“Dean,” Castiel snaps, pulling away and putting a hand on Dean’s chest, keeping him at bay. “How bad is it?” He levels Dean with his best _don’t fuck with me_ stare, and Dean swallows heavily. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to say, but Castiel turns on his smitiest glare.

Licking his lips, Dean exhales in a way that Castiel recognizes as him trying to center himself. “Yesterday,” he says softly. “The cafe, Crowley’s—that was yesterday morning.” 

Castiel blinks slowly a few times, looking out towards where the sun is beginning its initial descent down into the horizon. “But… it’s sunset,” he says blankly.

“Yes,” Dean agrees. “We—fuck,” Dean swears, sloshing forward through the water, knocking Castiel’s arm away and pulling him in tight, a hand cradling the back of his head. “Cas, I don’t know how to tell you this.” 

“You’re telling me that I lost an entire day,” Castiel marvels, probably less distressed than he should be, but hell, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be distressed about. 

“I’m telling you…” Dean’s voice breaks a little, and Castiel feels his mouth press against the thin, damp fabric over his shoulder. “We’re in trouble here, Cas,” Dean says softly. “You and me, we went on one of Crowley’s boats to try and set the guy up. We were gonna record him threaten us, subdue him, drive the boat back to shore. But he—” Dean chokes a little and shakes his head. “He had backup, another boat that came. We fought, I shot him, but he got away. Took the boat GPS and my bag with our GPS in it with him. I don’t know if they _knew,_ you know, what we were up to, or—” 

“Alright,” Castiel tries, attempting to sound comforting, even as Dean’s soothing a hand down _his_ back, petting _his_ head like he’s the one who needs it. “So we drove the boat back, how did we—”

“Without any GPS aid or maps, I had to guess. There was a storm, the clouds blocked out the sun and I—I had no way to navigate. I must’ve gotten turned around. The storm was wild, man, we got knocked around, the boat ran into a bank of rocks just offshore here, it capsized. You went under so I dove in, dragged you to shore, went back for the boat.” For the first time, Dean straightens up and Castiel realizes that his eyes are red. Dean waves an arm behind him, and Castiel finally notices that there’s a mid-sized speedboat a ways out in the water, attached to the end of the rope Dean dropped earlier. It’s on its side and the part of the hull that’s in the air is sporting a gaping hole. 

“There’s engine damage,” Dean explains. “Not to mention the big ass hole. But at least it didn’t sink or sucked back out to sea by the storm. We just need to bring it the rest of the way to shore—took me until the storm passed because of the winds to haul it this far—and then I can really take a look.” 

With a frown, Castiel pulls back and shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Why don’t we just walk down the beach, or inland to find some help?”

“Cas,” Dean says pleadingly but Castiel just raises his eyebrows and waits. Dean sighs and swipes a hand over his face, looking resigned. “This isn’t Oahu. This is the whole damn island,” he explains, spreading both arms out in demonstration. “I mean, there’s the hills back there, but that’s it. We could see when we came up on it, before we wrecked. It’s probably part of the deserted chain that includes Crowley’s private island. There’s like, five of these suckers, all uninhabited. A cruise ship owns one of them. Hell, maybe this one. I’ll take a walk around it, obviously, but…” he trails off. 

As Dean’s words sink in, Castiel feels the first tendrils of panic begin to escape his gut. “And your bag with the GPS…” 

Dean nods sorrowfully. “Gone. But Cas, if I know Sam, he was watching that thing like a hawk. If those guys have it, that’s good. Sam will see it come back into the pier and he’ll know we aren’t with it. He’ll raise holy hell if he has to, he won’t let us be lost out here.” 

That calms Castiel’s rising alarm, and he takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Our phones?” He asks, already knowing the answer, unsurprised when Dean points up the beach to where Castiel can see two black iPhones sitting stacked together in the sand, if he squints.

“Water-logged,” Dean explains apologetically. “But they probably wouldn’t work out here, anyway.”

You’re right,” Castiel says carefully, trying his best to process, to think all of this through rationally. “So Sam is… likely already searching for us. And… you said there are only five of these islands?”

“Yea,” Dean agrees. “Crowley’s is the biggest.”

“That’s… good news. Sam will piece things together, he’ll involve the police, they’ll send a search party. And there are only so many places to look.” Castiel looks up at Dean hopefully, and sees from the relief on Dean’s face that he must have come to the same conclusions but probably worried he was being too optimistic. At Castiel’s words, Dean nods enthusiastically. 

“And I shot that guy,” Dean reminds him. “My shit is on his boat. Plus, Sam took pictures of us leaving with him. From afar,” Dean amends, clearly recalling that Castiel doesn’t remember. “Please don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, green eyes full of concern, as if _Castiel_ is the only hurt one, the only one with something to lose here. “I’ll protect us, we’ll protect each other.” 

“Of course we will, Dean,” Castiel replies, cupping Dean’s cheek and kissing his husband softly. He looks around, realizing suddenly that they are still knee-deep in saltwater. “At least it’s not snowing,” he says lightly and a small laugh bursts out of Dean’s mouth, appearing to surprise even him. “Now, let’s get this boat up and onto the sand.” 

“Oh, no way,” Dean protests, grabbing the rope and holding it out of Castiel’s reach like a schoolyard bully with a favorite toy. Castiel looks at Dean like he’s nuts and simply walks around him, picking up the rope from the water further down. Dean scowls. “Cas, stop being a stubborn son of a bitch,” he demands. “You hit your head so hard you have amnesia, you need to lie down.” 

“And I will,” Castiel reasons. “Once the boat is up on the sand.” He puts a hand on his hip and points to Dean’s face. “You have as much head trauma as I do,” he reasons.

“ _I_ didn’t go all _Fifty First Dates_ on you, Cas, so, that ship ain’t gonna sail.”

Castiel scrunches his nose and tips his head to the side. “I didn’t forget that we’re married, Dean. Or that I’m madly in love with you.” 

“Yea? Well, I—” Dean stops short and tries to look angry, crossing his arms and glaring. “Flag on the play,” he mutters. “Unfair use of 'I love you,' to get your damn way.” 

“You could always say it back,” Castiel suggests casually, digging his heels in and starting to reel the boat closer using the sopping wet rope. Not that he’s about to admit it to Dean, but the straining action does actually make his headache worse, the pressure inside his skull mounting with every rough slide of the boat against the sandy ocean floor. 

“You piss me off,” Dean declares, but he steps forward, wrapping his hands around the rope and working _with_ Castiel instead of trying to do it for him. Together, they make reasonably quick work of towing the boat in. Once they slide it onto dry land, it gets more difficult to move and Dean ends up going behind the boat to push. By the time they manage to drive the thing up the thirty or so feet to the edge of the treeline (where Dean points out it will be easier to turn into a makeshift shelter), Castiel is exhausted. It’s all he can do to stay upright on his swaying legs when Dean instructs him to tip the boat sideways, back down onto its hull. 

“There,” Dean declares proudly. “Hang on.” He climbs up onto the boat and disappears down into the cabin, emerging minutes later and dragging a small mattress behind him with some difficulty. “Ugh,” Dean grumbles as he tosses the mattress onto the deck and points at it. “That thing is gonna need a full day in the sun. Smells like waterlogged ass. So does the cabin, actually.”

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, leaning against the side of the boat.

“The cabin itself should dry out eventually, and there are more soaked blankets in there, but so long as the rain keeps away, I think I’m voting we sleep outside tonight instead of down in eau-de-Ariel’s bedroom.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeats patiently.

“Found an emergency kit, too. Some good stuff, flares and a little bit of food. Two incredibly shitty but _dry_ blankets that will require us to sleep _very_ close together.” Dean holds up an apparently watertight bag and wiggles his eyebrows while Castiel watches as one Dean turns into two, turns into four.

Something on his face must clue Dean in, because he’s jumping over the side of the boat in a flash, threading an arm underneath Castiel’s shoulders _just_ in time for the world to go black and for Castiel to collapse. “I’ve got you,” Dean soothes as his face fades away altogether. “Cas, stay with me, I’ve got you.”

Castiel passes out. 

***

Coming to is less dramatic this time, mostly because Dean’s standing over him, shaking Castiel awake. It’s dark now, and not just the regular dark that five-year-olds are afraid of and adults welcome at the end of a long day. No, this dark is the very _absence_ of light. The kind of dark Castiel experienced for the first time when he and Dean were trapped in the Alaskan wilderness, all those years ago. No humans, no civilization, _no light._ Not in the distance, not anywhere. This particular form of darkness can be suffocating, especially if you’re not expecting it. 

Castiel panics. Between the dark and the pain in his head and body, Castiel’s instantly back in the Yukon-Charley Preserve, wondering if he’ll even make it out the other side. It’s ironic, in a way. Unquestionably, he handled being stranded in the wild much better the first time, but in his defense, that was mostly shock. Now, Castiel’s been in therapy for _years_ coping with the fallout from all of that, and perhaps, he’s realizing, not as aggressively as he should have been. 

Because his nightmares, his _worst_ nightmares, the ones that wake him up screaming and clutching at Dean for dear life, all of them come streaming back at once. They hit him like a train, punching the air out of his lungs, and before Castiel realizes what he’s doing, he’s yelling and thrashing and fighting against Dean’s arms trying to hold him down. 

Thankfully, Dean cottons on quickly, refusing to be shoved away and instead, pulling Castiel closer. “Cas, it’s alright,” he soothes. “You’re alright, Cas, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve _got you._ Sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, when Castiel finally calms enough to hear it. He’s still breathing hard, shaking against Dean’s chest, sweat gathering on his forehead. Dean just holds him tight, kisses his hair, rocks him until the blinding panic starts to subside. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel flashes on the things Dean _hasn’t_ said, the words he’s so used to hearing when this happens. _You’re not there. You’re home. We’re safe._

At least Dean knows him well enough not to lie and expect Castiel to believe it. 

When he’s finally calm again, Castiel realizes that he’s on the deck of the boat, next to but not on top of the mattress Dean dragged from inside the cabin. “Sorry,” Dean apologizes. “That thing is still soaking wet. Was hoping your clothes would at least dry before we lost the sun.” Looking down, Castiel discovers that they have, which is a small blessing, stiff, salty texture of his t-shirt and jeans aside. It’s not cold out by any means, but without the sun, the temperature is probably in the sixties. It wouldn’t be pleasant in damp clothing. 

As he looks around, the other thing Castiel notices is that it’s not actually very dark at all, which makes him feel extremely silly for freaking out. Dean has a fishing pole set into one of the rod-holders on the stern of the boat, and he’s tied some sort of flashing light about halfway up. The light blinks in a pattern Castiel doesn’t recognize, though it definitely seems intentional.

“S.O.S.,” Dean explains when he sees Castiel looking. “It’s a visual distress signal, it blinks the S.O.S. message. If any boats happen by, they’ll see it. Not really useful during the daytime, though. But there are flares… a horn, too.” Dean shrugs. “Some versions of these automatically upload your location to a satellite when you turn them on, but not this one. Cheap-ass motherfuckers. No PLB or radio, either. The radio the dude had on his hip must have been the only one. Can’t help but wonder if this is the first time one of their targets managed to escape and steal away with the boat. There are basic survival tools on here, but it almost seems... like if you don’t _have_ the stuff that’s missing, you’re probably not supposed to survive.” 

That’s a chilling thought, though it’s really not something Castiel didn’t already know about Crowley’s operation. After all, he and Dean are literally here because they suspect the man of premeditated murder. The idea of Crowley ensuring there’s a Plan B that essentially runs itself should a target escape hardly seems like a reach. 

“Anyway,” Dean says as he gets to his feet. “I only _mostly_ woke you up to make sure I could. Also, dinner is ready.”

“Dinner?” Castiel echoes faintly as he accepts Dean’s offered hand. With a soft smile, Dean inclines his head over the side of the boat, and it’s then that Castiel registers the soft glow below them, on the ground.

_There’s a fire, Dean built a fire. Of course, he did, Dean’s a survivalist._

Swinging a leg over the edge, Dean drops down to the ground and then reaches up to put hands on Castiel’s waist to help him do the same. It’s a token gesture more than anything, but Castiel still appreciates the thought. To the right of the boat, a dug-out fire pit ringed in rocks blazes, a small pot with some unknown mush it in sitting off to the side, in some coals. 

“Take care of all the things that are most likely to kill you, in order, before they get the chance. Shelter, water, fire, food, signaling,” Castiel recites and Dean laughs softly. 

“You got it, sweetheart,” he says warmly, holding up a several-gallon jug of water. “This was in the kit, alongside a beat little saltwater purifier. Surprising, considering, but let’s not kick a gift horse in the mouth. Dunno how durable the purifier is, we should still probably see if there’s another source or way we can collect water tomorrow.” 

“I hate to ask about the shelter,” Castiel says warily, sitting down cross-legged in the sand while Dean pulls the pot from the fire. “There was cooking equipment?”

“Little camping set,” Dean says with a nod. “Utensils too, small cups. Here.” He hands Castiel the pot and drops two spoons in before filling one of said cups with some of the emergency water. “Drink it all before you eat,” Dean commands and Castiel gladly complies. He hadn’t realized until the water went down his dry, sore throat how very thirsty he was, the salt from the ocean undoubtedly doing him exactly zero favors. 

“Mmm,” he sighs. “Oh, that feels good.” Without waiting for Castiel to ask, Dean fills his cup again and Castiel continues to drink until it no longer hurts to swallow. 

“The bad news,” Dean says conversationally as if this whole experience isn’t _bad fucking news,_ and the ludicrous reality of that statement in context makes Castiel burst out laughing. He throws his head back and really lets it out because there’s no stopping this kind of laughter; the kind that appears out of nowhere and rips free from your body, whether you want it to or not. It’s not long before Dean is joining in, and then they’re just sitting there, clutching at each other and wiping tears from their eyes as the laughter fades back out to something more melancholy. 

“What’s the bad news?” Castiel asks softly, still smiling.

“Oh,” Dean replies, chuckling again as if he’d forgotten he was saying anything at all when Castiel interrupted with his hysterics. “Just the first-aid kit. It’s not great. There are maybe two packets of Tylenol, two packets of electrolytes, a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a handful of bandaids. Oh, and a sewing kit that says “Hilton Hotels” on the front.” 

“Like they stole it from _our_ hotel? The one right next to their shop? How cheap _are_ these guys?” 

Dean shakes his head in dismay. “That’s only half of the bad news, buddy. This—” He brushes a finger over the tender wound at the top of Castiel’s forehead, making him wince, even though Dean’s finger barely makes contact. “And this,” he continues, fingers moving to the cut on his own head, “need to be stitched. I would have done mine, but I can’t see it. I’ll talk you through it, though.” 

Reflexively, Castiel touches his own fingers to his forehead. “If that’s what needs to be done,” he says automatically. “But Dean, if we can’t sterilize properly, stitches won’t do much for us in the long run.” 

With that, Dean grins and reaches behind them, pulling something out of the sand. When he holds it up, Castiel sees that it’s a bottle of good quality rum. “I know your memories are hazy, or missing, whatever, but all of Crowley’s excursions include rum drinks. It’s like, a thing, or something. There’s a whole fuckin’ bench seat full of rum on that boat.”

“I don’t even know what to say to that.” 

“Can’t get too wasted, since we gotta work on each other, but between pouring some directly on these bad boys and then sipping, should at least help a little. Eat up,” Dean encourages, redirecting Castiel’s attention to the cooling mush still sitting mostly untouched in the pot.

“What _is_ this?” Castiel asks, not sure that he truly wants to know.

With a grimace, Dean holds up a can of generic stew. “Makes MREs look gourmet,” he says apologetically as if he packed this subpar emergency kit himself. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Castiel assures him, taking a bite and struggling not to let the resulting displeasure show on his face. Between the residual nausea still plaguing his stomach (probably related to his head injury, not the greatest sign) and the taste, Castiel’s not sure he’s actually hungry enough to choke this mess down. “Perhaps we look for edible vegetation in the morning,” he suggests, once he finally manages to swallow. 

“And we have a fishing rod,” Dean points out. “See what we can do with that.” He hesitates, digging his shoeless toes into the sand. “Maybe we won’t even need to. Sam’ll probably be here before sun-up. You’ll be putting away all the bacon, eggs, and pancakes that sexy stomach can hold before you know it.” 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies automatically, reaching out and taking Dean’s hand in his own. “We’ll be poolside by noon tomorrow, I’m sure.” 

Dean starts and then looks up at the beached boat. “I never answered your question about the shelter.” He cocks his head over. “The cabin ain’t bad, it’s made to keep the elements out, after all. I have the windows open and hopefully, _if_ we need to use it, it’ll be less wet and musty tomorrow. Mattress should dry out the rest of the way in the sun, too, but it’s already better than it was. Tonight’s not gonna be comfortable, but I think we should sleep outside. On the deck,” Dean amends. “We’ll be reasonably high off the ground, though I haven’t seen any animals yet. I’ll work on building us something safer and more secure tomorrow if I have to.”

“We should split watch tonight,” Castiel suggests, forcing another swallow of the tasteless mush down. “We don’t want to miss the chance to signal a rescue boat. Or a cruise ship. Or anything else that happens by.”

“Yea, about that,” Dean says hesitantly. “I’m worried. I know I have the S.O.S. signal up right now, but I’m not sure that we should be blindly signaling anyone. Listen, best case scenario, Sam got those fuckers arrested and the cops and Coast Guard are out looking for us right now. But worst case, he didn’t figure it out or they didn’t believe him. And if that happened, Crowley’s going to want to make sure that his escaped loose ends are taken care of, if you know what I mean.” 

For the umpteenth time today, Castiel’s stomach drops, and the few mouthfuls of mush he’s choked down threaten to make a second appearance. “Oh,” he says softly. “We could end up leading them right to us.”

With a dejected nod, Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him closer. “I think, in the light, we should be able to tell if it’s one of Crowley’s boats. They’re distinctive, and we have one right here to compare to. Also, it’s likely that even if people _are_ looking, an active search will come back and cover the same territory when it’s light again, if they’re unsuccessful in the dark. Plus, helicopters. Nothing we found at Crowley’s suggested he has any access to one of those, so we can pretty much assume that any we see are safe, whether it’s light out or dark.” 

“That’s good,” Castiel agrees, not sure who he’s trying to convince. The idea that Crowley and his men might come after them to finish the job feels like a pretty big blow to morale. “Perhaps we should turn out the S.O.S. light, then.” 

Pulling his thumb out from where he’s been chewing the nail, Dean nods. “Be safer, I think. And listen, Cas? You know me, you know what I can do with engines. We ain’t just gonna sit here and wait to be rescued like a coupla damsels in distress. You and me? We’re survivors. We’ll save our damn selves if we have to.”

“You think you can fix it? The boat? What about the hole in the side?” Castiel doesn’t want to get down on Dean’s mechanic and carpenter skills as they’re truly unparalleled, but that hole is _huge._ The only reason the boat didn’t sink outright was that it had somehow ended up on its side in the water. That alone is a miracle, and once again, Castiel can’t help but wonder if they have someone upstairs on their side. It’s just so improbable. If that’s the case, whoever it is very clearly _also_ likes a good story, and that’s not exactly reassuring. 

Dean scratches at his chin, oblivious to Castiel’s wandering thoughts. “Give me time,” he says thoughtfully. “The fuel tank is undamaged and there are some basic maintenance tools and repair gear in there. Nothing fancy, but I think I can get creative. Try not to worry, Cas. I know, I know. But we’ve gotten through worse and we’ll make it through this, too. In the meantime, we have each other.”

“Survivors,” Castiel murmurs, letting his head drop onto Dean’s shoulder. “I love you, and I trust you. This is not where our story ends.” 

“Psh,” Dean grunts. “That ain’t even on the menu, you hear me? Worst case scenario, I build us a Swiss Family Robinson-style treehouse mansion and we live out our very long, very _happy_ lives in the lap of island luxury. I’ll be pissed about missing the series finale of Dr. Sexy, but I’m sure you’ll think of some way to cheer me up.” His voice is light and teasing, and Castiel appreciates that even though he must be terrified, must be _beyond_ worried, Dean’s still working his butt off to make sure Castiel feels as safe and secure as possible. “Love you Sunshine,” he says softly, more into Castiel’s hair than anything else, and then he yawns.

“Let’s stitch and then I’ll take the first watch,” Castiel offers. “You need some sleep.” 

“Do we need to bother with that?” Dean wonders aloud. “Only thing that worries me is the possibility of some hungry, toothy animal sneaking up on us. But—” he strains his neck turning his head towards the treeline, “—I haven’t seen any sign of anything like that. Fire could be keeping them away, though. Or maybe there aren’t any animals here at all, the island is pretty damn small. Granted, I’m no expert on shit like that.” 

“Me either,” Castiel admits. “Better safe than sorry?”

“Probably,” Dean agrees, shoving down the last of the food and standing up to go rinse the pot out in the ocean. Castiel waits patiently, and when Dean returns he picks up the first aid kit and drops it between them. After looking through it briefly, Castiel’s disappointed to see that Dean wasn’t exaggerating—it’s not a very useful assortment of tools at all. “You wanna do or get done?” Dean asks with a smirk on his face.

“You know me,” Castiel returns just as cheekily. “I’m flexible. I don’t mind if you do me first, I promise I’ll ensure you’re taken care of after.” 

“I know you will,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a lot more gravity than only moments prior as he leans forward to kiss Castiel softly, smiling against his lips. “Okay,” he adds, clearing his throat and pulling the top off of the rum. Pouring some out onto one of the few pieces of gauze they have, he dabs the brown liquid onto Castiel’s cut. It stings like a bitch, but Castiel steels himself and instead of complaining borrows the rum bottle to take a few solid swigs. 

The rum doesn’t help. 

Back in Alaska, when Castiel was burned and the burn had to be cleaned similarly, without sympathy or anesthetic, Castiel had grit his teeth and borne the pain without complaint. Likewise, he’s determined to do so today. But stinging antiseptic poured over a wound is one thing; it’s over quickly and done in one fell swoop. 

This is something completely else. Dean is careful; gentle as he can possibly be, but Castiel still feels every prick of the needle, every stomach-churning pull of his torn skin. It probably doesn’t help that the needle is _not_ made for this, not nearly curved or sharp enough to make things quick and easy, but there’s no sense in complaining, it has to be done. So Castiel just grinds his teeth together and focuses on the adorable way Dean’s tongue sticks behind his teeth as he works. It’s a poor distraction, and Dean picks up on it.

“Sorry,” he says with a grimace. “If it helps, I ain’t havin’ any more fun doing it to you. Especially, you know,” he taps his own head with his free hand, “thinking ahead.” 

“Distract me,” Castiel entreats. “Distract both of us. How do you even know how to do this?” 

Dean just shrugs, but a smile creeps over his lips. “Well, you know how my dad was. We always had military shit laying around, he used to make me and Sammy practice on oranges.” Dean’s voice drops and takes on a faux-stern affect, “Just in case, boys, you never know.” He clears his throat and flushes a little before shaking it off. “So, anyway, we were up hunting in the Preserve one summer—yep, that Preserve,” Dean says with a wink. “Sam was cleaning out the rabbit he shot and accidentally got his hand with the knife. Big-ass gouge right down his wrist, and you know, we were in the middle of nowhere, and Dad was drunk because that’s what he did.”

“How old were you?” Castiel interrupts, struggling to imagine poor young Dean, feeling responsible for his brother’s health and safety, fearing the wrath of his father if he didn’t handle things exactly how he would have, had he been sober. It’s an infuriating thought, and not for the first time, Castiel is secretly glad he’s never had to pretend to like John Winchester.

“Uh, fourteen? Maybe?” Dean pauses to look up at the dark sky and squint as he thinks back. Before he starts sewing again, he adjusts Castiel’s head so that it’s better reflecting the firelight. “Stay still,” he chastises softly. “Sam was around ten, so that seems right. He was a tough guy about it, too,” Dean continues, huffing a little laugh in remembrance. “The whole time I was sewing, his little lip quivered and there were tears in his eyes, but he didn’t say one damn word.” Dean’s hand loops and flourishes in the air, and he uses the minuscule pair of sewing scissors in the pack to sever the thread. “Obviously, Bobby took him to the clinic as soon as we got back. Probably would have died of Tetanus or some shit otherwise.”

“Was your father anti-modern medicine?” Castiel wonders, not having heard that about John before.

“Nah,” Dean says with a shake of his head. “Probably just didn’t want to risk Sam telling them what happened, that I patched him up instead of Dad. Doesn’t matter, Sam knew better’n that. Alright,” Dean says, clapping his hands together in what is very clearly a subject change, one that Castiel respects. “My turn.” He grabs the gauze and dabs his own head wound with whiskey, the alcohol loosening whatever clot has formed in the ugly gash and making blood run down his face all over again. 

“I can barely see,” Castiel murmurs, as he takes the sewing kit from Dean. There’s a wisp of pink fiber still double-threaded through the needle, and Castiel squints at his husband. “Did you suture my head with pink thread?”

With a laugh and a grin, Dean nods. “I mean, it’s mostly stained red now. It’s cute,” he says cheekily. “Like you.” 

“Every time I think you’re done surprising me,” Castiel murmurs, cleaning the needle off with more alcohol and re-threading it. With bright blue, because he can, and he looks up challengingly at Dean when he notices.

“Oh, baby, should’ve just told me you were in the mood to mark your territory,” Dean responds with an eyebrow wiggle. 

“Perhaps later,” Castiel retorts, lifting the needle and pushing it through the very edge of Dean’s wound before he loses his nerve.

“Um,” Dean says, raising a finger and blinking repeatedly, looking absolutely ridiculous as Castiel lets go of the needle, leaving him sitting there with thread trailing down his face, right next to the rivulet of blood. “I thought we agreed I was going to talk you through it?”

“Oh,” Castiel gasps, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Dean, I’m so sorry! I got… caught up,” he finishes abashedly, reaching out to touch Dean’s wound and then pulling his fingers away, embarrassed. 

“No, listen, love the confidence,” Dean says with a wink, the loose thread moving with his head, which makes Castiel cringe a little. “It feels like you went from the outside of the wound in, right?” Castiel nods, scooting closer to visualize his workspace better. “Good, that’s good. That’s what you want to do. We’re just going to do a simple running stitch. Take a look at what you have there. You want to make sure you’re not too far or too close to the edge of the wound when you stick the needle in again.”

“Okay,” Castiel replies, a little breathlessly. “It’s… perhaps half a centimeter?” 

“Great,” Dean encourages. “That sounds perfect. You’re doing great, Cas. Now, every time you put the needle in or bring it out on the surface, you want it to be the same distance away from the edge. Same with the depth, though that might need to be a little deeper than you have it. I can’t see the wound, so you’re going to have to make your best guess. The important thing is that you keep the depth the same on both sides. So wherever you pushed it through, push it back through on the other side in the same spot. That way, when you pull the stitch closed, the edges will line up. Make sense?”

“I think so,” Castiel says carefully, still poking around and slightly horrified that each time he does, more fresh blood oozes from Dean’s injury. Castiel’s no doctor, but he and Dean had taken an advanced first aid class after their ordeal being stranded originally, and he did pick up a few basic things. He remembers that head wounds bleed, that as long as the wound isn’t pulsing with the person’s heartbeat and bright red, it’s probably not as bad as it looks. They’re stitching each other up right now because of the risk of infection, of things getting inside of it, not to stop the bleeding. Running through those thoughts oddly helps Castiel relax and focus. 

“Anytime, sweetheart,” Dean reassures him, and Castiel grasps the needle where he’d left it piercing Dean’s skin. His husband, on the other hand, grabs the rum and chugs.

“ _You_ stay still now,” Castiel complains. “I’m an amateur.” Lining the needle up again on the other side of the wound, he closes his eyes and starts to apply pressure to force the entirety of it all the way through Dean’s skin.

“Cas!” Dean barks and Castiel jumps, pulling away and dropping the needle completely this time. “Cas, you can’t close _your_ eyes,” Dean says, exasperated, as the needle spins in a circle down by his neck.

“Oh, right.” Castiel retrieves the needle and this time, pushes it through without issue (or caving to the desire to look away). Dean instructs him to tighten the stitch carefully to see if the skin lines up, and to Castiel’s surprise, the edges close and it looks pretty good. Not professional, but it isn’t like anyone expected it to be. Encouraged, he keeps going, repeating the steps and checking his work, closing as he goes since the thread isn’t strong enough to pull it all tight at the end. Dean’s quiet while he works, sipping slowly from the rum bottle unless Castiel asks him a question directly, which is appreciated. When he runs out of ruined skin to stitch, Castiel loops the thread into a knot before sitting back to consider his work critically. 

The fire is low enough now that it really is turning pitch-black dark, and secretly, Castiel regrets suggesting sleeping in shifts and taking watch, hoping privately that Dean will still be okay with forgoing that plan. The only thing he wants right now is blissful unconsciousness (though preferably, not the injury-induced kind), curled up against the only comfort this island so far has to offer; Dean. 

“Not bad, cupcake,” Dean declares, peering at his distorted reflection in the back of a spoon, poking around the bruising at the blue-colored stitches in his head. When he looks up, his smile is slightly dopey and it’s then that Castiel notices the bottle of rum in Dean’s hand is more than half-empty. 

“Alright, drunkey,” Castiel says with a sigh, hauling an unsteady Dean to his feet with an arm threaded under his shoulder and around his back. 

“Mmm,” Dean sighs, nuzzling into Castiel’s neck and being the opposite of helpful when it comes to getting them both back on the boat. “You smell good,” he mutters, mouthing over Castiel’s collarbone and letting his hands drift down the front of Castiel’s salt-encrusted jeans.

“I _smell good?”_ Castiel repeats in disbelief. “I smell like what I imagine a barrel of cured fish on a pirate ship in the 1600s smelled like. As far as I know, that has yet to be made into an eau de parfum for a reason.” 

Not like Castiel thought he would be, but Dean is hard to dissuade, kissing along the sandpaper-rough skin just below Castiel’s jaw and unbuttoning his pants to shove a hand down and squeeze. “ _Dean,_ ” Castiel protests, exasperatedly removing Dean’s groping hand and extricating himself from the arms wound around him. Dean grumbles but allows Castiel to lean him up against the boat while he does a quick clean-up of the campsite and puts out the fire. 

Once that is done, their only remaining light is the blinking SOS signal and the moon. The intermittent red glow of the beacon makes Dean’s face look haunted, though Castiel’s fairly certain he’s just drunk and tired. It takes a concerted effort to get Dean up the ladder running down the stern of the boat, with Castiel shoving his ass from behind and Dean thinking it’s hilarious to pretend he’s falling off each time he moves up a rung.

Up on the deck, Castiel scratches his head while he tries to figure out where exactly they’re going to sleep. There’s a wide enough cushioned bench where they just climbed over the back of the boat, but only one of them can fit, and Castiel’s just not interested in sleeping anywhere Dean isn’t. While he’s thinking, Dean disappears into the cabin, returning stumbling over his feet less than a minute later with the two dry blankets he’d mentioned earlier. Castiel sighs; this is not going to be a night at the Ritz, no matter where they bunk down, might as well just accept that now. 

There’s another problem, though, and that’s Castiel’s clothing situation. His jeans, while dry, are uncomfortable as hell, and he can’t imagine Dean’s are any better. The wind is low and the temperature seems to be holding, so Castiel makes an executive decision and loses his pants. “Oh, hell yes,” Dean declares, holding the blankets above his head in triumph before flinging them to the side and stripping off his own pants, board shorts going down with them. 

“No, Dean,” Castiel tells him patiently, stooping down to pick Dean’s shorts back up and settle them back around his hips. “Sleep.” 

“You’re no fun.” Dean pouts, swinging his arms from side to side before spying the bench seat and remembering what’s under it. He’s got the cushioned lid up and is extracting another bottle of rum before Castiel realizes what’s happening and intervenes. “Aw, man,” Dean complains. “No booze, no sex. Damn it, Cas, who are you, Sam, the extra-large cockblock?” He bats at the SOS beacon grumpily before reaching up to switch it off, continuing to glare at it in the dark.

Ignoring Dean and pushing the top of the seat back down, Castiel realizes that the cushion is attached by metal snaps and that once they’re undone, it comes right off. _Jackpot._ “Pillow,” he says excitedly, tossing it onto the floor of the deck. Before he lies down, Castiel picks up the heavy, wet mattress and leans it against the side of the boat to give them more room, spreading one of Dean’s found blankets in the space it’s vacated.

“Well that’s something, I guess,” Dean says grudgingly, plopping down on the blanket and stretching out carelessly. Perhaps Dean is just drunk, or maybe he’s genuinely not as concerned about their situation as Castiel is. Either way, it’s strangely reassuring to see him so relaxed, and Castiel drops down next to him, drawn to the comfort the very idea of holding Dean promises. Circumstances aside and despite his own protests, Castiel can’t help but take note of the way Dean’s body looks in the pale moonlight, though he swallows the fleeting pang of arousal, doubting that he could perform even if he wanted to. 

It’s yet another painful blow, something that feels very different from the first time they were stranded together. It isn’t that Castiel trusts Dean less now than he did then—of course not—but these are different circumstances. This is not Dean’s home base and there weren’t a gang of near-cartoon villains chasing them through the Alaskan wilderness. At the same time, none of that can be dealt with tonight, and Castiel strongly feels that curling up with Dean and getting some sleep is the best thing for _both_ of them, in every way, at this point. 

Considering that, he shelves his mounting anxiety and pulls the second blanket over both of their bodies as he fits himself to Dean’s side. It’s heavier than it looked folded up, and Castiel is grateful. There’s no real risk of hypothermia tonight, not with the ambient temperature and his and Dean’s shared body heat, but sleeping chilled isn’t enjoyable, and if they can avoid it, all the better. 

It doesn’t escape Castiel’s rueful notice, as Dean’s arm locks around his back and his mouth brushes the top of Castiel’s head, that he can hear the waves lulling him to sleep tonight. It’s not as satisfying as he imagined. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo.... thoughts?! Reactions? We ARE going to see what happened to them, eventually, when Cas does. ;-)


	6. Thirst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As if reading Castiel’s mind, Dean tips his head close, meeting Castiel’s eyes intently when he looks back down from staring up at the sky. Suddenly, Castiel is back in Alaska again, sitting on that hilltop with Dean, soaking in the incredible phenomenon that is the Aurora and even more so, the wonder that was discovering Dean was falling in love with him. It’s a strange twist of ironic fate; the first flashback Castiel’s ever had that didn’t leave him terrified and shaking, and he’s genuinely in danger this time, not safe in his own bed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has art from the amazing, the incomparable [Winchester-Reload](https://winchester-reload.tumblr.com/)! Make sure you head on over to her Tumblr and leave some love <3 <3 Thank you, Jackie, for another amazing piece for these boys.

The thing that wakes Castiel up is heat. Cracking open an eyelid, he winces at the stiffness of his body, the post-accident aches and pains only amplified by a crappy night’s sleep on a hard surface. At first glance around, Dean is nowhere to be seen, not on the boat’s deck and definitely not acting as a cushion to shield Castiel from the unforgiving fiberglass (probably? Castiel’s no expert on boats) floor. The blanket that kept them warm overnight is gone too, which is probably for the best since the temperature feels like it’s risen damn near thirty degrees. 

Strangely, Castiel can sense the heat, but doesn’t feel as if he’s baking in the sun—and upon rolling over onto his back, he abruptly realizes why. The blanket is still covering him, just as a sunshade instead. Dean’s rigged it up using the back of the boat and the arch over the cockpit. Despite himself, Castiel smiles. Even here, lost at the end of the world and in the middle of the ocean, Dean continues to surprise him in all the best ways. 

As Castiel sits up, groaning at the way the movement stretches his sore muscles, he notices a small bottle of mouthwash sitting innocuously next to their makeshift bed. _Strange,_ Castiel thinks, but as Dean said the previous night, he’s not going to kick a gift horse in the mouth. Standing up and ducking out from under the canopy to stand inside the bridge, Castiel pours some of the mouthwash into the lid and swishes it distractedly around while he looks for Dean. This time, he finds him easily, standing calf-deep in the ocean while holding a fishing pole. That is not, however, the most interesting part of the picture. No, that would go to Dean’s complete absence of clothing, his butt a full three shades lighter than the rest of his body. Since Dean can’t hear him, Castiel spits over the side of the boat and then takes the opportunity to chuckle at the sight. 

_The sight_ also includes the totality of the beach and the lush, verdant scenery behind it, which Castiel can now take in fully in the daylight. Their makeshift camp is about midpoint on this side of the island, unbroken sand stretching about a half of a mile in either direction, curving around where it ends in pointed tips, like a half-moon. The effect is a bit of a sheltered cove, which explains both the very calm seas _and_ the rocks that tore a hole in the side of their boat. Beyond the sand on the island side is dense, green forest, and beyond that, the rolling peaks of several hills, equally abundantly carpeted by various vegetation. It’s quiet, and still, and while it would be stunningly beautiful in any other context, to Castiel, it just feels ominous.

Turning his head back to the water alleviates some of that feeling, at least. The sparkling turquoise water gets increasingly dark the further away from shore Castiel’s eyes track, but up close it’s just as inviting and attractive as the waters he and Dean floated in by their hotel. Sunlight glimmers in radiant diamonds strewn across the top and all of it frames Dean’s gorgeous body, making him look like something out of a magazine, an advertisement inviting the reader to throw caution to the wind and travel somewhere exotic. 

Drawn in, Castiel climbs down off the boat, relieving himself over by the treeline before deciding _fuck it,_ and taking a page from Dean. Stripping off his t-shirt and boxers, he wades into the calm surf, splashing noisily up behind Dean, who doesn’t react to his presence at all. That’s fine by Castiel, it allows him to plaster his whole front to Dean’s back, to wrap arms around his husband’s waist and hold him tight. Underneath the hands he has pressed flat against Dean’s chest and belly, his husband relaxes, sinks into his grip and sighs happily. For a moment, things are perfect again. They’re just two married and very much in love men, on a vacation in paradise, clinging to each other while the friendly ocean laps a warm and inviting welcome around their legs. 

After a moment, Dean shifts the fishing pole to brace against his hip so that he can free a hand. Naturally, he uses that hand to reach back and touch Castiel’s chin, coaxing his mouth towards Dean’s own. _Minty,_ Castiel thinks with amusement as he kisses Dean good morning, lets Dean draw the greeting out as long as he likes, or at least until Castiel’s neck starts to ache and the sand shifts under his feet. 

“Hello to you, too,” he says, voice still sleep-rough when Dean finally lets him go. Castiel moves around to his side and Dean shifts easily with the change, draping an arm around Castiel’s shoulders without hesitation. “Where on _earth_ did you find mouthwash?” 

“Hmm?” Dean replies distractedly. “Oh, there was a duffle full of personal stuff, like, overnight gear, in the cabin. Not watertight, so everything didn’t survive, but some things did. Couple pairs of sweatpants and hoodies, which is maybe the best news ever.” 

" _Sam_ showing up on a luxury yacht with mimosas and bacon cheeseburgers would be the best news ever,” Castiel replies, reluctantly pulling away from Dean to crouch and splash some water on his various parts, clean himself up a little. “I don’t suppose you found sunscreen in there?” 

Shaking his head no, Dean eyes him up and down. “You’re tan even in the dead of winter in Alaska,” he points out. “Cover your dick and you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. Me, on the other hand? You see these freckles?” Unable to resist, Castiel stands and steps forward again to run gentle, wet fingers over Dean’s shoulders and down his back. Damp trails reveal his path as Castiel traces the smattering of said freckles across his skin. He smiles widely and Dean rolls his eyes but has to bite back a grin. “I’m gonna be a lobster.”

“Then why are you naked?” Castiel asks. “Not that I’m complaining, truly, but it probably isn't safe.” 

Dean shrugs. “Figure I might as well get it over with. Burn myself to a crisp and hope it fades to tan. I’ve got a base going, maybe I’ll get lucky and not need a burn unit when this day is over.” Castiel narrows his eyes and makes a face to show his displeasure at Dean’s poorly-timed joke, but ultimately lets it go. This is how Dean copes, after all, and he (probably) is not actually trying to burn himself from head to toe. “No luck with the fish, in case you were wondering, but with this fake plastic bait shit, I’m not exactly surprised. Hey, you up for a walk? See if we can’t find some water or a way to get it, maybe go dig up some grubs? Do desert islands have grubs?” Dean’s confused expression is adorable, and Castiel leans up to kiss it on instinct. 

“While I approve of you moving into the shade for a while, do you think it’s smart to leave the beach? What if there’s a rescue sighting?” As Dean finishes reeling in his hook and wades back onto the sand, Castiel follows behind. Noting with relief that there’s no more unidentifiable mush to choke down, he gratefully accepts the packet of granola waiting for him, which Dean hands over. 

“I think we really don’t have a choice, Cas,” Dean says. “If we’re gonna be stuck here, we need to canvass what we’re working with. We won’t go too far and we’ll bring a flare gun, just in case. Helicopters are loud, we should be able to hear one coming and make it back to the beach in time. And boats…” Dean doesn’t have to finish that sentence for Castiel to pick up on what’s left unsaid. If it’s a true rescue effort, they’ll be looking for them, will likely come to the island and check it themselves. And if it’s not...

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, pulling his boxers and t-shirt back on, followed by his jeans, and then his stiff dried socks and boots. It’s impossible to keep the sand out of his footwear, and Castiel’s not exactly excited about dealing with that on a hike. Still, at least they have boots, and not something completely impractical like flip flops. He may not remember firsthand, but Castiel doesn’t need to ask why he and Dean both chose to wear them on the excursion, either. Sure, not the most practical wear for snorkeling, but they _were_ preparing for a fight. At least Dean was smart enough to wear board shorts underneath his jeans, though his propensity for getting naked suggests it doesn’t matter anyway. “It’s hot, but we should probably not wander into what is essentially unknown jungle with bare legs and feet.”

The proud look on Dean’s face when Castiel looks up makes him flush, which is a rarity. “That’s my man!” Dean enthuses. “Thinking like a real survivalist. Fuckin’ proud of you.” He stands way too close as he ruffles Castiel’s hair like he’s a child and looks positively gleeful about it. 

“Yes, well,” Castiel returns, shoving a fistful of granola into his mouth in an attempt to change the subject, and then talking through it, which is something he definitely learned from Dean, and Dean’s grin shows he knows it. “I believe that I have the credentials, at this point.”

“C’mon, Grizzly Adams,” Dean says, resurrecting the moniker he’d bestowed on Castiel in the first days they’d met, after their plane had crashed, in an effort to make Castiel smile. The reminder isn’t lost on Castiel. He kisses Dean’s cheek affectionately when Dean hands over a full glass and tips it up towards his face. “Hydration is important. Drink this water, and then lets hit the road.” 

***

They’re lucky. 

Truthfully, that’s something Castiel has always known, considering how many near-death experiences they’ve both shared, how many one-in-a-million nightmare scenarios they’ve gotten into _and_ survived. It’s still sort of surprising, though, considering how bad things are, how bad they’ve gotten in the past, when anything goes their way. 

Their venture off of the sandy beach and into the depths of the island is slow going, to say the least. The vegetation is dense from the jump and with no cleared pathways at all, it’s up to Dean and Castiel to pick their way through carefully. Thankfully, the sun filters down through the lush, full canopy and there’s plenty of light, but moss, vines, and other flora obscure the forest floor to the point where putting one foot down in front of the other without testing first is dangerous. Twice one of them missteps and overturns an ankle on a concealed root, but thankfully there’s no real damage done and they keep going. After maybe twenty minutes of careful hiking in the stifling heat, the sound of running water appears like an auditory mirage, and if it weren’t for the fact that Dean’s head whips around to see if Castiel hears it too, he might have thought that’s what it was.

“Holy shit,” Dean says, forgetting himself and tromping ahead through the underbrush which leads to yet another turn of his ankle and some colorful swearing. Despite that, he waves Castiel off when he tries to come to his aid, limping on towards a barrier of brush that, if the light leaking from in between leaves and branches is any indication, has a clearing beyond it. Still muttering about his desire for a machete, Dean manages to clear a hole in the bush and duck through. He holds the branches back while Castiel follows, and then whoops with excitement when he sees what’s on the other side.

_Lucky._

“Holy shit, Cas,” Dean repeats, this time even more excitedly as he surveys the scene in front of them. _Everything_ else aside, Castiel does have to admit, this feels like they’ve stepped directly into one of those posters hanging in a generic travel agent’s office. The ones advertising exotic, barely-conceivable-as-real locations, more believable as being photoshop or digital art than a place one could actual travel to and enjoy in person. 

“It’s incredible,” Castiel agrees, surveying the sparking freshwater pool taking up most of the clearing. It’s being fed quite obviously by a small waterfall cascading over the enormous rock wall facing them, likely runoff from the small mountain looming in the background. The pool is surrounded almost entirely by rock, which Castiel is grateful for, happy to have a break from the roots and vines of the forest floor. 

After testing the large slab of granite between him and the water, Castiel steps onto it cautiously and creeps across to the edge. Peering over, he’s pleased to see that the water is clear all the way to the bottom, which appears to be made up of still more rock and sand. This water is bluer than the ocean, which Castiel finds interesting, though his thoughts on why are interrupted by the slapping of soles against rock and Dean’s hollered, “Cannonball!” as he rockets into the air, pulling his knees up before he hits the water, presumably to make the largest splash possible. Castiel ducks and manages to avoid having his clothes soaked, but only just.

“So… I take it we are pausing here to swim prior to filling our water bottle and returning to camp,” Castiel posits, once Dean’s head bursts back through the surface, naked body powerfully churching the water he’s treading just beneath.

“Get the fuck in here,” Dean demands, slapping the water with his palm and then wincing. Not like Castiel can refuse an offer like that, Dean’s arm muscles wet and glistening in the fractalized sunlight, bulging as Dean lifts his hands to run them through his wet hair, leaving it spiky and wild. 

Looking briefly towards the unbroken line of trees behind them, for what, Castiel has no idea, he finally shrugs and disrobes down to nothing. Just in case, he takes the time to set his boots back farther from the edge, because Dean, and there’s nothing worse than hiking in wet shoes. Once that’s done, he turns his attention back to where Dean is watching him intently, arms moving rhythmically to keep him afloat. He’s so discordantly beautiful, and here, in _this_ beautiful place, so out of sync with their stressful, dire situation, it’s so nonsensical Castiel can barely wrap his mind around it, but it _helps_. Without saying or doing _one_ single thing, Dean’s lifted some of the burden from Castiel’s shoulders just by being himself.

He lowers his eyes so Dean doesn’t see them stinging and hesitantly dips a toe into the water. Castiel’s pleased to find it warm enough to entice him in, but cool enough to promise it’ll be refreshing. He’s sweaty from the hike, and ocean water isn’t great for cleaning up—just leaves one feeling increasingly sticky. Also, the salt residue turns to crystals on skin if enough of it builds up. Gross. 

From down below, Dean makes an impatient grumbling sound and Castiel waves him off, dipping the rest of his foot into the water tentatively and waiting for Dean to look away. He gets his chance when Dean tips his head back, closing his eyes and pretending to snore. Without warning, Castiel hops off the rock to crash into the water right next to Dean’s face. Beneath the water, he can feel Dean thrashing next to him in surprise, letting out a laugh that bubbles up and floats away as Castiel pushes towards the surface. 

Dean gets in his face as soon as he’s topside, backing him up wordlessly until Castiel’s pressed against the rocks and Dean’s less than an inch away, just staring him down, water still dripping off of his second-day stubble. His bright green eyes sparkle against the blue of the water, and Castiel’s feet slip against the small outcropping of rock beneath him as they search for purchase. 

As soon as he’s stable, relatively certain that his next move won’t plunge him and Dean directly underwater, he grabs Dean’s waist and yanks him in, kissing him hard and deep and wrapping an arm around his back to keep him close. “I haven’t told you how much I love you today,” he murmurs into Dean’s mouth, pausing to lick along his tongue, to bite at his bottom lip affectionately. “I _love_ you.” 

Dean responds by hauling Castiel up by his ass, taking over bracing them on the small ledge with his own toes as Castiel wraps legs around his hips. The water does most of the work, but Dean presses him against the rock anyway and the vibe between them is _raw,_ desperate as Dean claims his mouth again and doesn’t let go. It takes some adjustment underneath the water before they’re sliding together in the grip of Castiel’s palm but once they are, it’s practically a relief. 

With a small gasp, Castiel closes his eyes, tips his head back until it thumps against the stone, chest heaving with arousal and effort and all the good feelings Dean never fails to make swirl inside of him. He reaches up to thread fingers in Dean’s hair and tug him down to his neck where Dean goes gratefully, greedily, to suck kisses into his skin. When Castiel opens his eyes again, it’s to a sunlight-studded canopy of green, leaves rustling gently in the breeze. With the soft, clean water surrounding them, it almost _does_ feel like paradise, and Castiel lets go. 

A small sob escapes as he leans forward and clutches Dean’s shoulders, coming softly, gently, almost anticlimactically, in a silly sort of irony. Dean’s right behind him, holding on tight as he ever has while he spills into the water and pants into Castiel’s neck. They rock there in the water for a long moment, Castiel running hands from the top of Dean’s head as far down his torso as he can reach and back again, Dean still squeezing him so tightly that it’s hard to take a deep breath. When he finally pulls back, the look in his eyes is sated, but heavy, the little blue thread at the line of his scalp making Castiel smile reflexively.

“That felt… life-affirming,” Castiel offers and Dean nods, holding eye contact before leaning in once again to kiss him slow and sweet. 

“Alright,” he says, clearing his throat. “Reach behind you, hand me the water jug.” Castiel wrinkles his nose. 

“With the water we just—”

“We’re gonna filter it, dumbass,” Dean retorts, snatching the jug from Castiel’s hand when it’s offered and paddling backward with it across the pool. “But since you’re worried.” Castiel watches as Dean replenishes their supply directly from the mountain runoff, taking the opportunity to scrub himself as clean as possible in the fresh water while he waits.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of Castiel’s neck stands on end, and he gets the distinct but very clear feeling that they are not alone. With not a small amount of trepidation, he turns slowly in the water, doing his best to stay below the edge of the rock so as not to be seen, and scans their surroundings. 

“ _Dean,”_ Castiel hisses as the bushes at the treeline rustle with something distinctly _not_ the wind causing it. Dean’s only halfway across the pond, a concerned look on his face when the _thing_ causing the disturbance comes bursting through the brush. 

_“Oink!”_

“ _What_ the f—” Dean’s curse is swallowed as he disappears under the water, perhaps from surprise, as Castiel recoils back from the rock, putting some distance between himself and their animal intruder. When Dean comes up again, he’s no more calm, staring in disbelief at the giant, hairy pig with what appears to be a deformed snout and _tusks._ “That’s a fuckin’ _boar,_ ” Dean declares. “How the fuck did a _boar_ get on a deserted island?” 

Before Castiel can even venture a guess as to the answer to that, the thing goes snorting and snuffling around their clothing piles, settling on working its muzzle into the top of one of Castiel’s boots. Undaunted, Dean swims forward, shoving the water container at Castiel and placing hands on the side of the pool with the obvious intention of pulling himself up. “I’ve got a knife in my boot,” he explains. “I just gotta grab this thing, kill it, and we’ll be eating bacon after all.” 

Wrinkling his nose, Castiel’s not sure where he falls on this plan. Ultimately, the mush and granola bar he’s eaten so far during their stay here have him keeping his mouth shut and deciding to simply be glad he’s not expected to do the pig-murdering. Dean actually gets all the way out of the pool and retrieves his knife before the pig notices, but when he does, all hell breaks loose.

With a snort and a muffled _“Oink!”,_ the pig’s head snaps up, spooked by Dean’s close proximity. Before Dean can react, though, the pig lets out a loud squeal, grabs Castiel’s boot in its mouth by the laces and takes off like a shot into the brush. Clearly still focused on the potential bacon and not all the hazards of the jungle, a still-naked Dean lifts his knife and hollers a war cry of, “THAT’LL DO PIG!” at the top of his lungs as he takes off barefoot after his wayward breakfast meat. 

Unsure of whether he should go after Dean or stay behind with their things, Castiel drags himself out of the water and stretches out in a patch of sun-warmed rock in the hopes that he’ll dry faster. Only a few minutes later, he hears more rustling and can only pray that it’s Dean and not the boar returned to claim his other shoe. Warily, Castiel watches the opening Dean cut into the brush, ready to jump back into the water if necessary. 

Fortunately, it is Dean that stumbles through, a lot more cut up than he left and limping visibly. Not surprising, considering that he tried to take on a forest floor that almost defeated both of them _with_ heavy boots on. In one hand is Dean’s knife and in the other, Castiel’s (slightly worse for the wear) shoe. “No bacon,” he grumbles, before plopping down on the rock and rolling onto his side to rest. 

Shaking his head, Castiel makes his way over and asses the damage to the soles of Dean’s feet while he has the opportunity. “I’m not going to say it,” he tells him, and Dean just grunts. “But you know what I’m thinking.” Thankfully, Dean’s feet don’t look badly injured, just cut up and abraded, but at least he didn’t snap an ankle or create a problem that can’t be fixed with bandaids, rum, and sewing thread. “Thank you for my boot,” Castiel continues, bending forward to touch Dean’s shoulder and kiss his cheek. “I would have survived without it. Come on,” he encourages, tugging on Dean’s bicep until he’s upright again. “We should get back, I need to clean those injuries up.”

When they’re dressed again and Castiel’s made sure Dean can actually put weight easily on both feet, they set off for the beach, following the markers Dean carved into various trees on the way there. It takes twice as long to hike back, and Castiel’s starving by the time they reach the beach and the boat. Additionally, Dean’s decided to pick right then to dig in his heels and be stubborn about letting Castiel care for him, insisting that he needs to get working on the engine and that Castiel can “kiss [his] booboos better later.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Castiel lets him go, because he knows better than to argue with Dean when his mind is made up. Besides, he saw the injuries, and they were essentially superficial. Dean can do what he likes, and jokes aside, Castiel fully does intend to kiss him better later. 

In the meantime, he needs to rustle up some better sustenance. Easier said than done, perhaps, but Castiel had his eyes open while they were hiking, and there were _tons_ of fruited trees between the beach and the pool. In fact, several are hidden just behind the treeline, and as Dean strips to shorts and a t-shirt before disappearing into the hole in the side of the boat, Castiel grabs the empty cooking pot and sets off to check them out. 

To his delight, he ends up with quite a haul. Sticking to fruits he can identify on sight, Castiel picks mangos, bananas, pineapple, and passionfruit. _No more mush, ever,_ Castiel thinks, entirely pleased with himself. There were several coconut trees and other things that might be edible but he wasn’t entirely sure of, but Castiel left them on their branches to consult with Dean about later. Well, he left the coconuts because he couldn’t reach them, but he’s sure Dean will be able to devise something to fix that. 

On the way back to the beach, Castiel catches himself. He’s somehow starting to think of their stay here as more than an emergency, life-or-death survival situation, and that can’t happen. He needs to stay focused, eyes on the prize, devising Plan Bs and Cs on how to get off of this island, how to catch the attention of their would-be rescuers, essentially, how to _not_ die here. _Focus, Castiel,_ he scolds himself. 

Last time, they had a sort of advantage in that Dean was familiar with their location, Dean had a plan and a way to carry that plan out, people he trusted on the other end who could anticipate his moves and meet him halfway. Theoretically, they still have that now, in Sam, but everything else… They’re all out of their element and there are endless variables that exist here that didn’t in Alaska. As good as Dean is, as determined and sure as he is that he can save them single-handedly, Castiel’s equally responsible this time for brainstorming solutions and backup plans. 

It doesn’t all have to be grand schemes and such either, though, Castiel realizes as he steps back onto the beach and clocks Dean still working on the engine. He’s halfway inside the hole in the hull of the boat, and Castiel checks to make sure that his legs aren’t burning to a crisp in the sun. Thankfully, he’s sheltered by the boat’s shadow, thanks to the positioning of the sun. In lieu of pulling his own weight and contributing to finding solutions, Castiel turns his attention back to their food situation. 

Scratching his chin, he contemplates Dean’s likely reaction to the suggestion that he _could,_ if necessary, subsist on fruit and water alone, biting back the smirk that comes along naturally with that particular imagery. Tracking down the feral hog isn’t entirely realistic; if Dean failed at hunting the thing, Castiel doubts he would stand much of a chance. Also, stabbing a live animal? Not something he’s sure he could bring himself to do, even if he was actually starving, which he’s not, he ate three mangoes and a banana before even beginning to fill the pot. 

Catching sight of the waves gently washing up on the sand gives him an idea, though. While Castiel doesn’t have a _lot_ of history with it, he does recall a rare vacation his mother had taken him on back when he was perhaps ten or eleven. It had been with her brothers, his uncles, to a beach house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Castiel had spent several happy days playing in the ocean and learning how to go “crabbing” with his rarely-seen extended family members. To this day, Castiel doesn’t know exactly what happened between his mother and her family, but he suspects it’s not far off between what happened between them; it isn’t as if Naomi Novak is easy to love. 

Regardless, he draws on those faded, limited memories now, stepping out of his jeans and folding them neatly before wading into the ocean. The pants’ salt-encrusted stiffness causes Castiel to make a mental note to see if Dean wants to do a laundry run to the freshwater pool later, _if_ they’re still stuck here. No sense in being uncomfortable, after all, and Dean did say he found some sweatpants they could wear while their jeans dry. On second thought, Castiel pulls his t-shirt off too and adds it to the pile, just in case. It, too, is salty enough as is. 

After dumping the collected fruit from the pot into the sand, Castiel brings the cookware with him into the water. He realizes pretty quickly that if there are crabs here, they’re not hanging out on this part of the beach, but he knows where he needs to go—the rock formations where the island curves to a point on either end. Also, if he’s walking all the way down there, his little pot isn’t going to cut it. Castiel hops up onto the boat and finds what he’s looking for rather quickly—a fishing net secured to the inner side wall of the deck. Popping it off, he smiles triumphantly and hops back down.

Remiss to bother Dean but not really seeing another option at this point, he wanders up and pokes Dean’s bare foot with his toe, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously evaluate the cuts on the soles of his feet. Already scabbed and indeed superficial, thankfully. “Sup, sweetheart?” Dean asks from inside the boat, still half-hidden from Castiel’s sight.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to walk down to the end of the island,” Castiel tells him, not wanting to get Dean’s hopes up for the content of their forthcoming dinner. “I shouldn’t be long. I’ll take a flare gun, in case I see something, there’s probably better visibility from out there.” 

“Alright,” Dean replies easily. “Hey, don’t hesitate to set it off if you get into trouble, either. I think it’s probably fairly harmless to split up at this point, but you know, I worry. If I hear the flare, I’m gonna come running.” 

“You know I appreciate that,” Castiel says warmly, letting his foot drag up the inside of Dean’s sandy calf. “I appreciate everything you do for me.”

“Hey now,” Dean warns him. “Don’t be starting something you can’t finish.” 

“Never,” Castiel replies automatically and then amends, “Later, though.” 

“Gonna hold you to that, sunshine.” 

Despite the fact that it’s afternoon and the sun is about as high in the sky as it can go, the sand is welcoming-warm, not so hot that it burns the soles of Castiel’s feet as he walks. It feels nice, pleasant to be strolling along a white sand beach, and the surrounding scenery _is_ beautiful. As Castiel takes in the foliage-dense mountains, he wonders if it might be worth hiking to the top of one, just to see if the vantage point gives them any further info or helps them see anything that can’t be spotted from the ground. He worries, though, with the trees appearing to go all the way to the top, would it be a waste of time? Would they even be able to see beyond the brush to view anything at all? 

Before he knows it, various sized rocks start studding the shallows to Castiel’s right, shortly giving way to less sand and more rocks overall. That creates tide pools in the crevasses in between, which is exactly what Castiel was hoping for. It’s low tide, and he barely has to wade into the water to find one with a couple of good-sized crabs half-buried in the sand in the middle. Using the net, Castiel digs two of them out and dumps them in the pot. They wriggle around lazily, one apparently more interested in escaping the pot than the other, but eventually giving up when the steep sides prevent it from tumbling right out. 

Castiel keeps going, managing to retrieve six crabs overall, dumping each into the pot in between trips to the various tide pools until it’s overflowing and adding more would be pointless, since the ones on top scramble out almost immediately. He ends up gingerly knocking the whole pot back into the net, barely escaping getting pinched, and carrying the net back straight out in front of him.

Proud of his haul _and_ his resourcefulness, Castiel does his best to focus on that and not the fact that standing on the top of the highest rock point at the far edge of the island revealed nothing new. No landmasses that weren’t visible from the midpoint of the beach, no rescue boats, no circling planes or helicopters in the distance, not even a damn cruise ship. Nothing.

Back at camp, the sun is getting lower in the sky, bright afternoon sun fading to an early evening golden glow, and Castiel builds a fire to get dinner going. This, at least, he can do. While it wasn’t a talent in his skillset the last time they were stranded, after several classes and Dean’s patient tutelage, it certainly is now. Satisfaction blooms in Castiel’s chest as he creates a flame from nothing but twigs, even though Dean almost certainly has a working zippo on him. This is the epitome of saving their precious resources, and Castiel knows that he’s right to be proud.

Once the flames are crackling, Castiel gets water from the ocean and sets it to boil. When it’s ready, he dumps the crabs in, wincing a little at the barbaric nature of this particular cooking method. He can’t take chances, though. One of the only perfectly clear memories he has from that beach trip is his Uncle Gabriel throwing out a couple of crabs that died between when they were caught and when they were to be cooked. He’d explained that once crabs die, they release a toxin that poisons their meat. If they’re cooked alive, that doesn’t happen.

Although, Gabriel always _was_ a bit of a cartoon character, and that makes Castiel wonder whether he was serious, or just making what he thought was a funny joke. Still, Gabriel is good people, and some of the only family Castiel even has out there. He did come to his and Dean’s wedding, but Castiel hasn’t spoken to him since, and perhaps he should rectify that. If— _when—_ they survive, he’s going to try and mend fences with his uncle, his mother’s desires aside. If one thing’s for sure, Naomi Novak’s judgment on what’s best for Castiel and who should be in his life has never exactly been on point. It makes Castiel wonder why it hasn’t occurred to him until now to do so.

While the crabs are boiling, Castiel has something else he wants to do. Clamoring up onto the deck of the boat, he tests the mattress and the blankets that have been drying all day in the sun. _Dry, thank God._ Wanting to surprise Dean, Castiel drags the mattress back into the cabin by himself. It’s small down there, big enough for the two of them to sit upright while on the bed, but no more than that. The sleeping quarters are tucked into the bow of the ship, the wooden platform that hosts the mattress stretching from one side of the boat to the other. 

Between that and the steps that lead out to the deck, There’s a dry sink and some cabinets, presumably where Dean found the stash of clothing and personal items. He notes that the mouthwash has made its way to the corner of the sink and is joined by some stick deodorant and unwrapped bar soap, which feels weirdly domestic, in a very bizarre way.

Shaking his head, Castiel drags the mattress back into the cabin, having to bend it to get through the door, which is a hassle. He heaves and sweats but manages to finish without having to involve Dean, which was the goal. Once the mattress in place, Castiel takes a break to pull the crabs out of the pot, draining it carefully and then replacing them to cool. He hops back on the boat and brings all of the blankets as well as their crappy, plasticky, makeshift pillow inside, spreading out some and using others to create a fluffy little bed Castiel hops Dean will like. 

Remembering what Dean had said about the moldy smell, Castiel sniffs the air and finds it no different from outside the boat. A little briny, perhaps, but not repulsive by any stretch of the imagination. There are two windows in the small bunk, both open, and Castiel assumes the air moving through must have helped. Regardless, the end effect isn’t too damn bad, if he does say so himself. 

Satisfied, Castiel returns to the beach and crouches down to wrap fingers around Dean’s ankle, tugging insistently. “Take a break,” he says softly, but firmly. “You’ve been working for hours and dinner is ready.” 

Reluctantly, Dean slides out from the interior of the hull, grease smears marring his face and arms, reminding Castiel of those wonderful snow days spent at Bobby’s shop, watching Dean work. That all feels so far away right now, and Castiel never thought he could miss something so much. “There you are,” he says, dropping to his knees in the sand to crawl forward and kiss Dean, unable to wait even two more seconds for Dean to get his bearings and stand up. 

When they separate, Dean looks worried. “If I stop now, I’m gonna have to pack it in for the night,” Dean says. “I’m about to lose the light.”

Glancing towards the now-actively setting sun, Castiel cups Dean’s cheek (getting his face sandy in the process) and kisses him again. “The light is going with or without you,” he points out and Dean sighs. 

“There’s something else, Cas,” he says. “Not sure if it’s good or bad news just yet, but I think we can safely turn the SOS beacon back on.” Castiel arches an eyebrow, sitting back on his heels and waiting patiently for Dean to continue. Dean holds up a small box with wires and a screen on it. “GPS device,” he explains. “It was hidden in the engine. It’s called a governor, lots of companies use them on fleet vehicles to track them or control the speed of the craft. Like, if you put one on a truck, you could see the truck’s location at all times _and_ prevent it from exceeding sixty miles per hour. Or you could set it to just notify you when the truck leaves a certain perimeter or goes over a certain speed. They’re useful,” Dean says hesitantly. “Doesn’t surprise me that Crowley would use them.”

“But it’s been on this whole time?” 

“Yea,” Dean says with a nod, reaching out to squeeze Castiel’s thigh as he processes, which doesn’t take long. 

“I follow,” Castiel says with a sigh. “If Crowley wanted to find us, it’s likely he would have already. Likewise, if Sam has gotten the police involved, the tracking information hasn’t been turned over to them, either.” 

“And even if Sam knows it exists, he hasn’t been able to hack into it, yea, that’s my basic thought process. The other thing is, say Sam got Crowley arrested, and they’re holding him. If they can’t make a formal arrest, they might have to let him go _or_ even if they did, he could get out on bail. That’s why I deactivated this thing, they can’t track it now. I can wire it to the dash up top, use it to help us navigate back to Oahu when the time comes, but, probably best to keep it off for now.” 

Castiel’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “What if those men have our location and are simply waiting for Crowley’s command to act on it?” 

Dean’s head tips back and forth as he thinks, clearly reviewing something that he’s turned over in his head more than once already, if Castiel is reading his face correctly. “Possible,” he agrees. “Unlikely, if you want my opinion, though—”

“I do,” Castiel interrupts with a smile, and Dean flushes, the corner of his lips quirking up despite himself. _So self-doubting,_ Castiel thinks, squeezing Dean’s hand where it still rests over his thigh. 

“ _If_ Crowley is under suspicion he won’t want to raise more of it. Even if that’s the case, I don’t think he’d take the risk. He’d know that could wind up leading the police right to us. Not to suggest that we shouldn’t be vigilant, but… I don’t know, Cas. It’s just a gut feeling. We can still turn out the SOS signal overnight, if you want.”

“I think that would help put my mind at ease,” Castiel replies. “In the dark, it will be difficult for anyone who isn’t welcome to surprise us without the light leading them right to us.” Dean nods and smiles tightly, so Castiel takes advantage of the pause in the conversation and drags him to his feet. Brushing the copious clinging sand off of both of them, he takes Dean’s hand and leads him to where he’s laid one of the blankets in the sand.

They sit with their backs to the water, the sunset fading into the ocean behind them, the fire illuminating Dean’s face and the elaborate spread Castiel has prepared. Crabs, various fruits, and fresh water. It’s no Hilton eggs benedict, but Dean’s face lights up and his stomach growls. “Cas,” he says, clearly delighted. “This is fuckin’ awesome, man. I didn’t even think of crabs. You’re a goddamn genius.”

“I do have one or two secret skills,” Castiel replies, secretly beyond pleased that Dean is happy.

“I’m _starving,_ ” he says, digging into the pot to grab a crab and break off a leg. “Oh,” he says suddenly, stopping just shy of putting the leg in his mouth to dart back to the boat and duck inside the hole. He emerges holding up a hammer and grinning. “This should help,” he says, handing it over to Castiel as he sits back down. 

Castiel uses the hammer to break the crab’s shell but waits to eat until Dean starts, watching for his reaction. It doesn’t disappoint. Dean’s eyes slipped closed as he sucks the meat out and chews slowly, throwing his head back and moaning happily. “Cas, I _fuckin’_ love you,” he says with his mouth full. “If we weren’t already married…” 

“Make sure you eat some fruit,” Castiel replies, his cheeks flushing slightly under his husband’s praise.

It’s a good meal, done far too quickly, but at least from what Castiel can tell, crabs are plentiful and easy to catch. Dean promises to do some fishing tomorrow, too, but Castiel waves him off, insists that he can handle the “housekeeping” end of things while Dean works on the boat. It is, after all, their Plan A and the current priority. 

They huddle together in front of the fire, blissfully full for the first time in over a day. “Oh,” Dean says suddenly. “That reminds me. The governor is what fucked up the engine, made us crash. We must have gone outside whatever perimeter Crowley set, which automatically stalled us out. Now that I’ve removed it, the engine works fine. So, just gotta find a way to patch that hole, and we’ll be good to go.” 

“My hero,” Castiel says softly, not remotely kidding even though Dean snickers. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and Castiel finds himself turning his face up to the sky. It’s not so different here from the arctic: the darker the night turns, the brighter the stars become, although they’re already visible in the skies above their heads, even as the sun is still sinking fiery red, pink and orange into the sea behind them. Castiel finds that he misses the familiarity of the northern lights, that the sky looks emptier somehow without those hazy streaks of green and blue. It’s with an odd start that he realizes he’s _homesick._ Not just scared and worried about their survival, but genuinely homesick for the place he and Dean have carved out and built for each other. 

As if reading Castiel’s mind, Dean tips his head close, meeting Castiel’s eyes intently when he looks back down from staring up at the sky. Suddenly, Castiel is back in Alaska again, sitting on that hilltop with Dean, soaking in the incredible phenomenon that is the Aurora and even more so, the wonder that was discovering _Dean_ was falling in love with him. It’s a strange twist of ironic fate; the first flashback Castiel’s ever had that didn’t leave him terrified and shaking, and he’s _genuinely_ in danger this time, not safe in his own bed. 

That thought is almost ludicrous enough to make him laugh, but Dean’s expression so closely mirrors the way he looked that night, Castiel can’t bring himself to break the moment like that. “It’s beautiful,” he offers, wondering if Dean will remember. “Despite everything. More beautiful than I ever could have imagined.” 

“Yea,” Dean replies, his breath hot on Castiel’s cheek, his eyes hooded and heavy, and Castiel _loves_ him, loves him so much he thinks he could actually burst. “So much more beautiful,” Dean adds, clinching the cliché but _much-_ needed callback to that moment, one that Dean apparently does remember just as well as him. It’s a twisted fairytale for the two of them all over again, and somehow, Castiel suddenly feels _okay._ Nothing about this situation is anything less than fucked up, but he _is_ here with Dean, they’re both alive and relatively safe, the engine is fixed on the boat, and really, it could all be _so_ much worse. 

Most importantly, they have each other, and perhaps Castiel has lost sight _just_ a little bit on how important that is. At the end of the day, it’s not just _a_ thing, it’s the only thing. When Dean leans in to close the distance between them, Castiel goes easily, treasuring Dean’s mouth against his own, the quiet, undemanding way his hand comes to rest in the middle of Castiel’s chest. “Take me home, Dean,” he says, closing the loop, and Dean laughs softly against his lips. 

“Yea, Cas,” he says agreeably. “Anything you want.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the boar:  
> And here is an approximation of the pool: :)
> 
> Thoughts??


	7. Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Castiel’s dreams are jumbled, an array of scenes that at first merge from one to the other in a blur of color and shrouded light. For the most part, he drifts, searching and grasping at memories just beyond his reach._
> 
> _Until suddenly, everything coalesces violently, and without warning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time to fill in some blanks...  
> warning for explicit-ness in the second half.

The reaction Castiel gets from Dean when he sees their makeshift bedroom is… unexpected, to say the least. “Cas,” Dean says with a laugh as he lifts the corner of each blanket one by one before putting them back down and turning to Castiel with a grin on his face. “You built a _nest_.” 

Castiel’s mouth drops open a little and he cocks his head to the side, not entirely sure he understands what Dean is getting at, though on second thought, the bed _is_ a bit… nest-like. “Do you not like it?” 

“Like it?” Already barefoot and shirtless, Dean kicks off his jeans and boxers and climbs up onto the bed, flopping back onto the blankets dramatically. With his hands stretched out to the sides, he’s easily touching both walls of the boat with a lot of room to spare, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. “I _love_ it,” he enthuses, gathering up a mass of blankets in each arm and wiggling his hips around, which makes Castiel smile wider. 

“Perhaps I’ll take these things to rinse out at the pool tomorrow while you’re working on the side of the boat,” Castiel suggests as he strips off his own clothes, leaving them puddled on the floor next to Dean’s. “Unless you need my help.” 

Dean’s eyes follow him as he pulls up onto his knees on the raised platform, pulling his lip between his teeth in an appreciative smirk. Before he bothers to answer, Dean reaches up and cups Castiel’s jaw, pulling him down on top of him, squeezing his ass and kissing him deeply. Dean pulls back after a minute or two, brushing hair off of Castiel’s forehead and watching him with open affection in his eyes. He frames Castiel’s face with both hands and presses their lips together again, gentle, lingering. “Sunshine,” he says, mostly into Castiel’s mouth. 

“Honey bee,” Castiel replies easily, snuggling down into Dean’s side.

“Huggy Bear,” Dean returns, slightly more aggressive than the exchange calls for, but that’s Dean.

“Love muffin.” 

“ _Cupcake_.”

“Tater tot.” 

“Oh, shit,” Dean groans, flopping onto his back from where he’s been curled into Castiel, nuzzling at his cheek. “I would friggin’ _kill_ someone for an order of Ellen’s tater tots right now. Not you, obviously,” he adds when Castiel makes a disapproving face at him. He rolls his eyes and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, pulling several of the blankets up over them and deciding that he, too, is extremely pleased with his so-called _nest._

Tonight, the waves crashing softly in Castiel’s ears feel a little less ominous. It’s not nearly as terrifying to let go and fall asleep. 

***

_Castiel’s dreams are jumbled, an array of scenes that at first merge from one to the other in a blur of color and shrouded light. For the most part, he drifts, searching and grasping at memories just beyond his reach._

_Until suddenly, everything coalesces violently, and without warning._

“Well, hey there.” A familiar voice sounds behind him and Castiel’s eyes fly open, blinking in confusion against the bright light that assaults his pupils. Looking around, Castiel takes stock of his surroundings swiftly, having the strange sense that his time here is limited, that he’s supposed to be _doing_ something, but unable to remember what exactly that something is.

In front of him, there’s a row of floor-to-ceiling glass windows that look out over a u-shaped two-story shopping plaza, and beyond that, a beautiful sandy beach lined with turquoise water. The door leading out of the room he’s in features a sign that says “CLOSED” and— _oh, he’s inside._ Obviously this is a store, that is the _back_ of the sign, and the store is open. Alright, Castiel’s getting it now. He turns around and registers more details—graphic posters featuring various happy, laughing vacationers doing everything from ziplining to swimming with dolphins, a huge rack of snorkeling gear, and a cash register.

 _Crowley’s Island Adventures,_ the sign on the wall behind the counter proclaims, and that feels familiar to Castiel too, though he couldn’t say why. There’s a bored girl, incredibly petite with long, brown hair and brown doe eyes, leaning on her elbow with her chin in her hand, looking as if she wishes she were anywhere else. When she moves, her face blurs and while Castiel blinks furiously, it doesn’t come back into focus. 

“Well, hey there,” the familiar voice repeats, and when Castiel turns his head, he’s relieved to find Dean standing there beside him, grinning charmingly while he lounges against a countertop display crammed full with a truly impressive number of glossy, colorful pamphlets. Castiel squints at them, but they’re all blurry and try as he might, he can’t register anything specific about any of them. 

“Dean,” he says in relief, turning his attention back to his husband. Castiel walks into his arms like he always does, expecting to be embraced, but Dean stays stiff beneath him, still posed like a mannequin with his elbow on the display. “Dean, what’s wrong?” Castiel asks, but Dean just stares blankly, looking _past_ him instead of _at_ him, almost as if he’s focused on the space Castiel was occupying a minute ago. “Dean—”

“Well, hey there,” Dean says again, smiling at the space slightly to Castiel’s left. 

Wrinkling his brow, Castiel touches his temples and looks around helplessly. “Dean, I don’t…” 

“Well, hey there,” Dean repeats, and just like that, Castiel’s brain snaps back online, telling him what to do. Or rather, what to _say_.

“Hello,” Castiel replies cautiously, side-eyeing Dean and nearly collapsing with relief when he _moves_ and his eyes twinkle, and he _finally_ says something else.

“I’m Dan,” he offers, flirtatiously sticking out his hand for Castiel to take, which he does, relieved to have some contact with his husband that’s welcomed and returned. 

“Hello, Dan,” Castiel replies warmly, keeping his body language guarded instead of giving in to the insistent desire to fall into the unconscious way he usually sinks into Dean’s side. “Do you… work here?” 

“Me?” Dean scoffs, all charm and bluster, _extremely_ endearing, and the amused little smile Castiel gives in return hardly has to be faked. “God, no. I was just…” Dean trails off, shrugs, rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m here alone. I know, I know, weird, right? Who comes to paradise by themselves? But I, uh, recently lost my parents and came into some money, so I thought…” Once again, Dean trails off, and this time Castiel has to restrain himself from bursting out laughing. Dean’s story sounds _ridiculously_ forced. They are both terrible at this, Sam was right. 

Resisting the urge to eyeball the clerk and see what her take on them might be, Castiel forces himself to nod and step hesitantly towards Dean. “I’m Clarence,” he offers, not failing to miss the way Dean’s nose scrunches in dislike for his fake name. “I’m actually vacationing solo as well. The concierge at the front desk of the Hilton was adamant that Crowley’s private island is a can’t-miss opportunity. However, I must confess, I’ve been wondering if I made the right decision, giving up on having someone to travel with. So many of these excursions seem like they’d be a lot more fun if I had a friend to share them with.” 

The minute changes in Dean’s face relay that he’s laying it on a little thick, but the girl at the counter still just looks bored. “ _Dan”_ clears his throat. “Not to be forward, and, you know, feel free to tell me I’m being a creep and to go pound sand, but uh, I’m free tomorrow.” Dean jabs a thumb over his shoulder at one of the posters on the wall, featuring a woman kissing the snout of a bottle-nosed dolphin. “I was thinking about maybe doing that dolphin thing? I kind of have the money to blow, it could be my treat,” he adds, his head ducking, cheeks flushing, and his voice getting a little shy. _Alright,_ Castiel thinks, _I take it back. He’s not completely terrible._

“Ten years of savings, no vacations,” Castiel replies with a smile. “I, too, have money to burn. Perhaps we could book this… and I could repay you with dinner tonight?” Dean’s answering smile tells Castiel he nailed it this time. The clerk, _Ruby,_ as her nametag says, is looking at them curiously now, through narrowed eyes. While Castiel watches, she surreptitiously pulls out a cell phone and starts typing. 

Well, either they’ve achieved what they came here to do, or they were so bad they completely blew any chance they might have had at catching these guys in one shot. Considering that Ruby (and Crowley, for that matter) have no reason to suspect anyone is onto them and their operation, Castiel decides it’s safe to assume it’s the first thing, at least for now. And hey, if no one makes a move on them tomorrow, then he and Dean will have some neat memories swimming with the dolphins. And possibly of having faux-stranger sex in one of the secluded freshwater pools Crowley’s island supposedly boasts, Castiel hasn’t decided yet. 

This certainly could have gone worse. 

As Dean extends his elbow for Castiel to take like the faux-gentleman he is, the store suddenly shifts around them, the walls and displays and _people_ melting like crayons under the heat of the sun and disappearing into thin air. Castiel’s head spins and he grabs onto it with both hands, shutting his eyes as the floor rocks beneath him, sort of like—

 _Waves. Waves on the ocean._ Opening his eyes, Castiel sees nothing but endless dark blue sea stretching for miles in front of him. Nothing else, just sparkling, lightly foam-capped ocean, unforgiving sun, and what looks like gathering storm clouds in the distance. The floor rocks again and looking down, Castiel realizes quickly that he’s on a boat. 

_The_ boat. Without any context for why, Castiel just _knows_ that this is _the_ boat, and _the_ boat is important, he would recognize it anywhere.

“You two have no idea who you’re messing with,” an angry, masculine voice says, causing Castiel to whirl around. When he does, he’s surprised to see another boat floating alongside the one they’re on, occupied by three scruffy but generic-looking men all pointing guns in their direction.

Dean is beside him again, in the same jeans and t-shirt he was wearing earlier, though Castiel can’t quite parse out what he means by that— _earlier? Where_ did he see Dean last? His head is fuzzy—Dean’s feet are planted firmly on the boat deck and his face is set and furious. Castiel’s eyes skim down to where Dean’s fingers are flexing around the butt of his gun as he points it, safety off, at the only other man on their boat.

 _Their excursion guide,_ Castiel remembers abruptly, watching as the guy swipes the boat’s GPS from the counter and Dean’s bag off of the floor, slinging it carelessly around his shoulder. He can practically _see_ the gears turning in Dean’s head as he calculates whether he can take out that guy _and_ the three other _(_ _armed)_ ones on the second ship, eyes darting from them over to Castiel as he reluctantly concludes that no, he definitely can’t. At least, not without one of them getting shot too. Dean’s hell on wheels with a gun, any gun, but he’s not magical. 

_They’re going to leave us here,_ Castiel realizes, and a rumbling overhead makes him glance back out over the ocean. The storm clouds that seemed distant only moments prior are _right_ on top of them, and Castiel can see the curtain of rain rapidly approaching, churning the sea into something angry and messy where the wind and falling water hit it.

“I’m coming for you,” Dean calls out as their treasonous guide steps from one boat into the other. “I’m gonna track you all down, make you pay, I fuckin’ promise you that.”

The second boat’s engine revs as the guy pauses with his foot still on the side of the boat, not even bothering to climb down, he’s _that_ sure Dean won’t pull the trigger. Their craft is still idling, and Dean edges towards the helm as he keeps his gun trained on the men. “Cas,” he warns, and Castiel doesn’t need anything more than that. He ducks and rolls past Dean into the cabin below deck as Dean fires rapidly, pulling the trigger at the same time as he throws the boat into drive as hard and fast as he can. 

The force of their sudden jolt forward sends Castiel flying back, down onto his ass, smacking the back of his head against a small cabinet that’s set into the wall of the cabin. He sees stars, but it’s not enough to keep him down. Immediately, he’s on his feet, jumping back onto the deck with his own gun magically appearing in his hands, primed and ready to fire on anyone chasing them. 

But no one _is_ chasing them. They’re speeding away from the second boat at a pace so fast, the bow of their own craft is slightly up in the air, and Castiel has to hold on to the Captain’s chair so as not to lose his balance and be thrown down again. When he’s stable enough to study it, Castiel sees that Dean’s face looks grim but determined as he races them straight into the oncoming storm. 

Their eyes meet and hold, and Castiel feels a little sick to note that Dean looks terrified. He reaches out a hand, wanting to hold and comfort and reassure Dean that they _will_ make it through—that’s a certainty, though how Castiel knows it so assuredly in his bones is beyond him, yet he does. 

Except, before his palm can connect with Dean’s stubbled cheek, the scenery melts once again, and everything really goes to hell. 

The world comes rushing back with the grinding, painful sound of rock shearing metal. Castiel’s flying—soaring through the air, stopped unceremoniously and _painfully_ by the metal edge of the windshield separating the bridge from the bow of the boat. Pain explodes in color across the backs of his eyelids, the inside of his head screaming and feeling as if he threw up all over it. Warm, sticky wetness runs down the side of his head almost immediately, but Castiel doesn’t have time to focus on that because when he opens his eyes—

“ _Dean!”_ he screams, seeing his husband several feet away, draped over the windshield unmoving and with a _lot_ more blood surrounding him than Castiel feels on himself. It’s all like a terrible stop-motion film, though, because the boat is still moving, still sliding up the rocks and tipping almost comically slowly onto its side.

 _We’re going into the water,_ Castiel realizes with dawning horror. “DEAN!” 

By some unfathomable miracle, Dean’s eyes blink open blearily at Castiel’s screams, coming to _just_ as the boat keels almost all the way capsized, dumping Castiel into the water and plunging him down into the depths. He barely has a chance to drag in a deep lungful of air before he goes under, and he loses sight of Dean, and _oh, no. Dear God, this cannot be how their story ends._

_The void, Castiel knows that void._

He thinks about falling endlessly into the bottomless black depths, thinks about Dean, about _loving_ Dean, wonders whether the ocean will even notice his tears. 

_Behind his eyes, green. Just green._

The world dissolves once again. 

Castiel surfaces— _no, wakes_ —screaming and wondering why water isn’t flooding his lungs as he does. Bolting upright, he scrapes the top of his head on the ceiling above him and panics, thrashing and yelling as Dean wakes up equally confused, trying to stand and full-on smashing his head on the ceiling in all the chaos. 

“Ouch! Fuck,” Dean swears, but he quickly catches on to what’s happening and grabs Castiel around the waist, hauling him into his lap and holding on tight. “Shh, sweetheart, come on. Cas, it’s alright, you’re alright,” he soothes while Castiel sobs and clings to him, mumbling details that are still flooding back to his now-conscious brain, even though he’s awake. The nightmares don’t fade, not this time, and it takes Castiel several minutes of being rocked and comforted by Dean to realize that it’s because they’re _memories,_ memories he’s finally seeing and dealing with for the first time since the two of them went missing. 

“We truly almost _died,_ ” Castiel moans into Dean’s neck, feeling Dean go perfectly still beneath him before his arms tighten. It’s weirdly reminiscent of the dream-Dean from Castiel’s memory of Crowley’s store, and the thought makes Castiel shiver.

“You remember,” Dean says, stating a fact and not asking, the flat of his palm finding its way between Castiel’s shoulder blades and staying there. “What—” Dean’s voice sticks a little in his throat and Castiel sniffles, reaching down to wipe his face on a blanket that’s puddled nearby. By the time he’s done, Dean’s gotten his voice back and he sounds a bit more steady. “What did you remember?” 

Nuzzling back into the crook of Dean’s neck, which seems to go a long way to soothing Dean, himself, Castiel clears his throat. “So many things… You and I, we were in Crowley’s shop,” he starts. “Um… our tour guide being picked up by his cohorts. You shooting him and then driving us into the storm. The boat crashing, and… and everything that came with that, except I have no idea why I didn’t drown.” 

A pained noise comes from Dean’s throat, deep enough that Castiel feels it on the top of his head more than hears it. “Not gonna lie, I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t remember the part about me being responsible for wrecking us here.” 

“What?” Castiel sits upright, placing a hand in the middle of Dean’s chest and furrowing his brow as he looks at Dean skeptically. “Oh, no,” he says firmly. “No, we are not going to do that. Dean, you got us away from those men, who would have killed us. If you hadn’t, what was stopping them from shooting us as they drove away? And the storm—you do realize that your choice to drive _into_ the storm is likely what stopped them from following? Self-preservation instincts aside, they likely guessed what would happen to us. It follows completely with everything else we know about their operation. They already had an injured crewmember, they knew you and I were armed, and they knew there was a good chance we’d take care of their problem ourselves simply by being inexperienced tourists driving headlong into a storm. In fact, think about it. They could have easily spun that story to police—blaming us for stealing the boat, frame it all as a tragic accident. Two drunk, reckless tourists who caused their own deaths. It very nearly happened that way, didn’t it?” 

“Yea, I guess,” Dean replies begrudgingly, still doing his best not to look Castiel in the eyes. “I could have kept a sharper eye out, though. I should have steered the boat straight in to the beach, not gone for the first scrap of land I laid eyes on.” Dean shrugs sadly.

“We’ll get you boating classes when we return home,” Castiel says incredulously, half-exasperated. “You’re so hard on yourself. You saved us, and I can only assume you literally saved me. I mean, I know that you did, since you told me so, but I would like to hear the story from you. That part of my memory is still missing.” Castiel pauses to take a deep breath, flashing back to the water surrounding him, the darkness below him, the wreckage of the boat floating above him at the surface. He shivers, pressing his eyes closed and leaning into Dean once more.

“Hate to break it to you,” Dean says softly, shifting beneath him to cradle Castiel more closely. “But I doubt you’re going to get any of those memories back. You were unconscious when I pulled you to shore. I wasn’t even sure if you were breathing at first, I—” Dean trails off, chokes a little, and when Castiel looks up, he’s got his finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. After a slow, deep breath, Dean continues, but when he drops his hand his eyes are still notably glassy. 

“It was a _rough_ decision, Cas, leaving you to go and retrieve the boat. But I thought—what if you didn’t wake up? The boat mighta been my only way to save your life. I didn’t know how hard you hit your head or what—” He breaks off again and takes another moment to compose himself. “Let me tell you,” he says. “Seeing you sitting up, walking through the water towards me? Might’ve been one of the best moments of my whole damn life,” he says, finally. “Cas,” he continues, voice breaking a little. “I didn’t want to… you know, scare you, at the time.” Dean breaks out suddenly in a watery laugh. “And the first thing you do is insist on pulling the fucking boat in. You friggin’ beast.” 

Dean’s words, his recounting of his emotions while all of this went down, seize Castiel’s heart in his chest, make it difficult for him to breathe. It hurts to know Dean was suffering because of him, but that’s a ridiculous shame spiral they are _not_ going to go down—self-blaming bullshit that’s no different from Dean’s crazy idea that he’s somehow at fault for them being stranded here to begin with. _Pure insanity,_ they’re not going to do that.

Usually, Castiel is the undisputed King of using his words. He’s the voice of reason, often Dean’s very own “Jiminy Cricket” (Dean’s amused description, not his). He’s self-aware, he’s an excellent verbal communicator, and he sets high expectations for Dean in that department, too. 

However, sometimes words just aren’t enough, aren’t helpful, and tonight—tonight is one of those times. Fortunately, Castiel is relatively certain he knows exactly what they both _do_ need. Their all-too brief moment in the freshwater pool earlier comes rocketing back to him with startling clarity, lighting a fire inside of him that burns with a need and an intensity that’s almost a little scary. It’s as fresh and demanding as their first time together back on the mountain, and Castiel thinks that feels right, somehow. 

_Life-affirming._

Those were the words he’d used, and he wasn’t wrong. Castiel _wants,_ wants Dean, wants to feel that way again, wants to make _Dean_ feel that way, too. He sucks in a ragged breath, taking a moment to cope with the strength of his desires, all-consuming in a way that he hasn’t felt since those first terror-and-love-infused days in the wilderness. When he’s ready, he lifts his gaze to meet Dean’s eyes, and the expression he finds staring back is _so_ shockingly on the same page it causes tears to spring to Castiel’s eyes. 

“Dean,” he says, soft but anxious, and Dean’s arm tightens around him, so clearly understanding exactly what he’s feeling even though Castiel hasn’t said a thing except his name. _God,_ he couldn’t love Dean more, it’s simply not possible. “Dean, kiss me,” he pleads as Dean’s eyes flicker down to his lips. Then he nods and keeps nodding, even as he lifts a hand to cup the side of Castiel’s head and slide their mouths together, breath coming a little short and loud in the small space as they both hold on to each other more tightly than they’ve had to in years.

There are fireworks bursting in Castiel’s fingers and toes as Dean presses him into the mattress, stretching out over him, kissing him soundly as he pushes both of Castiel’s arms up over his head. Dean’s hands are firm and hot where they smooth over Castiel’s skin, pushing up the length of his arms to wrap around his wrists. He understands what Dean is doing—this is no power play, it’s not about control or kink, Dean’s just trying to make it so that as much of their skin touches as possible. Dean _needs_ and Castiel wants so badly to feel needed.

And truly, it’s been a while since he’s handed over the reins to Dean, since Dean generally prefers the opposite, but this is… _yes,_ this is _exactly_ what Castiel wants. To let Dean guide their pleasure and take care of him. He _needs_ it right now, more than he needs air. 

As they kiss, Castiel’s hands slip free from Dean’s grasp, kneading over Dean’s shoulders and sweeping down his sides as Castiel lifts a leg and presses his thigh against Dean’s hip, wanting to get closer still. He breaks away from Dean’s mouth, still panting lightly from stress and desire and everything else coursing through his veins and Dean just looks down at him, eyes so intense, so focused and full of love and affection. His thumb pulls slowly over Castiel’s lower lip, dragging his jaw open just the slightest bit. It’s enough for Dean to dip down and kiss him again, his tongue sweeping through Castiel’s mouth in a way that makes him groan and arch his back, wanting more. 

He doesn’t resist when Dean uses the same hand to tip his head back by the chin, letting it drop against the blankets as soft lips mouth over his pulse point. Still held down by the comforting weight of Dean’s body, Castiel can’t do much more than breathe through the need to have Dean in every way possible _right this second._

When Dean shifts against him, moving down to mouth at Castiel’s chest and stomach, his own torso drags against Castiel’s cock, the friction making him sigh and flex his hips, hoping for more. But Dean is slow, methodical, using his hands to cover the parts of Castiel’s skin that he can’t reach with his mouth and body so it feels as if Dean is everywhere all at once. Castiel wants to reciprocate, wants to return the favor, but Dean is insistent about pressing him down, so eventually, Castiel just closes his eyes, relaxes back, and lets him. 

Somewhere around his hipbones, Dean pauses in his downward slide to suck several lazy bruises until they’re purple, whispering words too quiet for Castiel to hear into his skin before continuing on his path. He presses open-mouthed kisses to Castiel’s thighs, noses at the crease of his groin, lets hot air puff teasingly from his mouth onto the sensitive skin of his balls. By the time his pink tongue darts out to lick at Castiel’s cock, Castiel’s shaking, clutching at the blankets beside him with need. 

But Dean doesn’t put his mouth where Castiel wants it, no, of course not. Frustratingly, he sits up, smoothing hands over Castiel’s thighs and ignoring the pained noise that Castiel directs at him. “One second, sweetheart,” he says, jumping off of the platform to root around on the floor. When he stands up, he’s got his jeans in hand and is fishing around in the pockets. Seconds later, Dean triumphantly pulls a small bottle of aloe vera out and holds it up, waving it back and forth like he’s won some sort of prize. “First-aid kit was useful after all,” he says with a smirk as he climbs back up on the bed. 

“What…” Castiel begins and then trails off, shaking his head. “It’s not the numbing kind, is it? That could be disastrous.” 

Dean just shrugs and twists the lid off. “I don’t think so, but, gift horse. Mouth.” 

Castiel squints and takes the bottle away, checking the label carefully himself before relenting. Once he’s sure that Dean’s not going to make them regret this, he relaxes back and makes himself comfortable, spreading his legs for Dean to fall between once again. As Dean gets his fingers slick and starts working them inside, Castiel strokes his face and marvels over and over at how much he would do _anything_ for Dean, how much he needs him, like this, but in every other way too. 

“Love you,” he says softly, taking Dean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and pulling him back in to kiss. 

It’s quiet between them for several minutes then, Dean carefully working him open and Castiel clinging to Dean, both of them kissing like it’s air, like they won’t survive if they can’t get enough. When Dean finally pushes inside him, Castiel’s nerves feel like they’re frayed and haggard, but Dean is a balm that softens and soothes it all. They rock together gently, less thrust and more fluid give-and-take, Castiel circling his hips and Dean, _Dean_ holds his thigh, touches Castiel’s face like he’s important, _special,_ and Castiel has never felt more like that’s something true. 

Soon, Dean’s hand drops between them, bringing Castiel to the brink with their eyes locked together, kisses turning sloppy and then into just breathing each other’s air. Castiel comes like the soft roll of a wave cresting the shore break, crashing onto the sand, completely undone and shattered, made whole at the same time. 

_Whole,_ Castiel thinks dazedly, stroking Dean’s hair and murmuring soft words of encouragement as he finds his own peak.

_You are all of my missing pieces. You make me whole._

He doesn’t say it aloud, because Dean is too dizzied to hear it, would never remember anyway. But somehow, as Dean slips out and burrows desperately into his side, kissing any stretch of skin he can reach, Castiel feels like he knows.


	8. Rebuilding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Dean,” Castiel says, slapping a hand to his chest, totally aghast. “You can’t name an animal and then expect me to eat it! Also, that’s a terrible name.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have said this before, but I forgot. While everything in "Wild" was extremely geographically accurate, a lot of this is not. There is no deserted island chain off of Oahu--I had to make it up for reasons. There are certainly deserted islands North/NW of Hawaii and Oahu, but the fic is not set on any of those. You may have to use your imagination regarding how far exactly each island is--the main point being that you can't see any others from Winchester Island and you can't see the island Dean and Cas are on from them, either. This is not unrealistic--for ex; Nantucket is only 30 miles from Cape Cod and you can't see one from the other (at least as far as my memory recalls, it's been awhile). Hope that helps with distance visuals!
> 
> Also, there's another piece of hilarious and amazing art by [Lindsay aka LadyRandomBox](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox), honestly, I LOVE Fatback in these so, so much!!!

It could almost be a lazy Sunday in Salcha when Castiel wakes up with Dean snoring in the crook of his arm. Patches of sunlight stream through the small windows of the cabin, the air inside just a _touch_ too warm to be comfortable, even with all the blankets kicked off. He looks down at Dean’s peaceful, sleep-relaxed face and smiles, feeling better this morning than he has in a very long time. Not that sex solves all problems, but somehow, what he and Dean had done the night before feels like it went beyond just _sex_. 

Today is a new day. With the boat’s engine working and repairing the hole in its side the biggest barrier between them and the ability to rescue themselves, things feel like they’re looking up for Castiel and Dean. And if he and Dean _can_ find their way back on their own, it will be the _second_ time they’ve essentially rescued themselves from the clutches of fate and terrible luck, or whatever all of this amounts to. 

That thought makes him feel less fragile, less victimized, like no matter what the world throws at him and Dean, they’ll take the hit in stride. The world, _fate,_ whatever is seemingly so determined to drag Castiel down into that endless void, it’s only as powerful as he and Dean are willing to hand that power over, and like hell if they’re going to go out like that. _Like hell_. 

Thinking about all of this energizes Castiel, reinvigorates him for the work ahead and the need to _believe_ that they are stronger than this, if that’s what he and Dean decide together—and they have. Being stranded—it’s all just another obstacle to overcome, no different in the grand scheme of things than deciding to take a leap and move in with Dean after less than a week of knowing each other. No different than Castiel packing up his entire life and moving half a continent away from everything he’s ever known. No different than opening his heart, letting Dean _love_ him, trusting Dean to protect and cherish the pieces of him that he’s never shared with anyone else. 

It’s just another unexpected challenge in their lives, and they’ll overcome it together, same as they’ve done everything else. In the end, they’ll be stronger for it, more sure of their places at each other’s sides. They’re just better together, Castiel and Dean, and Sam, too. 

_Sam,_ Castiel thinks regretfully. Sam must be hurting so much right now, undoubtedly kicking himself for ever suggesting this mission was a good idea. _When_ they get back, this time, the three of them are going to process this whole mess together. _Team Free Will,_ Dean had said, and Castiel feels a brand new sense of determination to make that _mean_ something. 

Beside him, Dean snuffles, stretching with his arms down in front of him, the way Castiel’s seen more than one cat go about it. Smartly, he smothers his smile before Dean sees it and Castiel has the urge to speak that thought out loud. Dean sighs contentedly and tries to snuggle back down, his hair tickling Castiel’s lips and nose obnoxiously, and when Dean laughs quietly into Castiel’s clavicle it becomes apparent that he knows it, too. 

“Good morning to you too,” Castiel says and Dean looks up, grinning widely with his green eyes flashing mischievously in the morning light. He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to reply with something impossibly charming and witty, when a noise outside the left window—the one that looks out over where their little campsite is set-up—grabs both of their attention. Dean’s face changes immediately, lips pursing and eyebrows questioning as he cocks his head in the direction of the window. 

“The hell is that?!” 

Whatever it is, it’s a weird cross between some sort of dragging or… scuffling? And a heavy sort of… _breathing?_ What the hell, indeed? Dean puts a finger over his lips and while Castiel has questions about that— _who does he think might be out there? If it were Crowley and his men, he and Dean would have matching bullets in their heads right now,_ or so Castiel assumes. As far as he’s concerned, it seems logical that whatever is out there is an animal of some sort, and probably doesn’t understand English. Well, perhaps Dean intends to try and catch whatever it is for food. 

Reluctantly, Castiel pulls on boxers and follows a similarly-clad Dean from the cabin of the boat out onto the bridge, blinking against the bright sunshine that immediately drenches them both. They pause near the boat’s steering wheel to let their eyes adjust before peering over the left side, jaws nearly dropping in sync at what they see below. 

It’s the boar, the one from the freshwater pool, and Castiel is fairly certain because _that_ one was gray all over except for an eyepatch-shaped tuft of white fur circling his right eye. Without having any training or credentials that would bestow such knowledge on him, Castiel feels confident that particular markings as such aren’t standard issue for boars or animals in general. The giant pig is nosing around their campsite without fear or hesitation, currently chewing on what appears to be Dean’s phone before spitting it back out and oinking away towards the pile of crab parts Castiel hadn’t bothered to dispose of more permanently. 

Beside him, Dean claps his hands quietly, rubbing them together with childlike glee. “Oh, we’re gonna be eatin’ good this morning,” he declares before disappearing back into the cabin and re-emerging with his knife, already unsheathed. Before he can jump over the side of the boat and presumably slice and dice the boar, Castiel stops him with a hand on his arm. Looking at him quizzically, Dean crouches down next to where Castiel is still watching the animal intently.

Right now, the thing is snorting and oinking happily as it crunches on crab-castoffs, and if Castiel didn’t know better, he’d say the pig almost looks as if it’s _smiling_. “Do boars smile?” Castiel asks Dean off-handedly.

“What? How the hell would I know? Can I go? Aren’t you hungry?”

Lifting one shoulder and letting it drop again, Castiel keeps his eyes glued on the boar. “I think we should leave him be,” he says, and predictably, Dean looks as if Castiel has just suggested he sell his Baby for scrap metal. 

“ _Leave_ him… Cas!” Dean hisses, wincing as his knee’s limit for staying in a crouch runs out and he has to reposition his legs. “We don’t know how long we might be here. That right there is _good_ eatin’, circle of life and all that. You never had a problem with hunting before.” 

Finally pulling his focus away from the boar, Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean. “I don’t have any problem with hunting for necessity, so long as what is being hunted is utilized and not wasted. We have plenty of fruit, though. Plenty of shellfish and we can try fishing again using bait. The crabs may help with that.”

“If there are any left,” Dean retorts, jerking his head pointedly at where the boar is making quick work of the shells. “You know what? I’m making an executive decision on this one, buddy. Kevin Bacon is dead, I’m taking him out.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, slapping a hand to his chest, totally aghast. “You can’t _name_ an animal and then expect me to eat it! Also, that’s a terrible name.” 

Dean frowns at Castiel and looks away for a moment, lowering the knife. Then, before Castiel can react to intercede, he puts a hand on the side of the boat and hops it like a fence, disappearing over the edge and landing on the ground with barely a sound. Kevin Bacon— _no,_ Castiel decides, _not_ his name—looks up with a start.

“SCREE!!!” he declares, a crab leg still hanging from his tusked mouth. Without sticking around to see what the crazy man with the knife wants, the boar blasts off running down the beach, paws kicking up sand ferociously as he goes. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Castiel mutters as Dean takes off after him, hopping over the side and dropping straight into a dead sprint. Dean’s fit and muscular, that’s for sure, but Castiel _runs_ for _fun—_ Dean never had a chance. It’s clear that he doesn’t know that, though, since he’s still adamantly pursuing the boar, and making decent ground at it. _Just_ as he’s about to tackle the thing and probably stab it, Castiel leaps, grabbing Dean around the waist and sending them both tumbling down into the sand. 

“RUN, FATBACK!” he screams, reaching out a hand very dramatically in the direction of the fleeing boar. 

“OINK OINK,” Fatback replies genially, loping off through an opening in the trees and disappearing swiftly into the brush. 

As soon as Castiel deems the pig safe, he rolls off of Dean and gets to his knees in the sand, petting Dean’s hair as he slowly pushes up from his stomach and sits back on his heels. Stifling a laugh, Castiel does his best to put on a serious, scolding face, but it’s hard when Dean looks like the Sandman from _Spiderman…_ whatever number is two too many sequels. Wiping the grains from around his eyes, Dean glares and then turns his head to spit, smacking his lips and tongue together like he can’t quite rid himself of whatever’s gotten in there. “I can’t believe you chose a pig over me,” he grumbles. 

“I did no such thing,” Castiel replies indignantly, getting to his feet and offering Dean a hand up which he takes, albeit petulantly, and still glaring. “I wouldn’t have let him eat you, either.” 

“And _Fatback?”_ Dean complains, fruitlessly attempting to brush off his chest and arms as they both wander towards the water. “Seriously? Kevin Bacon was genius, and you know it. If you’re gonna deprive me of bacon, the least you could do is let me name the damn thing.” 

They slosh into the shallows and Castiel, with a soft smile on his face, stands on his toes and kisses Dean’s still-sandy lips. Dean, of course, takes the opportunity to stick a tongue directly in his mouth, not in the sexy way, but the way of someone who wants to share the sand that’s lodged in there. “Thank you,” Castiel tells him, making a face as he tries to swish the grains back into a spot where he can spit them out, finding it annoyingly difficult to do so. Dean just crosses his arms and looks on smugly, and when Castiel’s preoccupied, grabs him around the waist and sends them both crashing down into the warm, salty water. 

It’s not deep enough where they’re standing to even send him under, but Castiel flails and sputters all the same, looking up at a _very_ smug Dean from under his now-wet and droopy bangs. “I suppose I deserved that,” he says good-naturedly, though he does take the opportunity to send a good-sized splash in Dean’s direction. 

The waves are calm this morning, barely a ripple as they drift in and out over the white sand, and while Dean washes himself off, Castiel floats. Lying on his back and looking up at the pale blue sky with its occasional wispy cloud, he feels surprisingly at peace. He should probably be worried that Sam and a rescue crew haven’t shown up yet, and that the boat is still more Swiss cheese than seaworthy, but the calm that had persisted from last night into this morning endures. 

_One thing at a time,_ Castiel tells his busy brain, standing up and shaking himself off to find Dean already watching him with a fond smile, surprisingly so for someone who was just tackled like a receiver on the five-yard-line. “Can’t believe you chose the pig over me,” he repeats, even as he reaches out to take Castiel’s hand, but there’s amusement in his tone. 

“I like him,” Castiel replies. “Don’t ask me why, I just do.” 

“Okay,” Dean agrees as they reach their makeshift campsite, and that is that. He lets go of Castiel’s hand to look down at his soaking wet shorts before shrugging and stepping out of them. “Ah, that’s the stuff,” he declares, spreading his arms and turning so that his exposed front is soaking up the sun. Castiel just rolls his eyes and sets about cutting up some fruit with the knife he retrieves from Dean’s hand. Dean eats quickly, naked and without shame, eventually admitting that the fresh fruit Castiel picked is “pretty okay,” after all, which, considering it’s healthy, is as close to an admittance of enjoyment as Castiel is going to get. 

They decide to head back to the freshwater pool together, Castiel with intentions of rinsing out their salt-encrusted clothing and Dean to investigate whether there’s usable clay between the rocks or at the bottom of the pool, for boat-hole-sealing purposes. It’s actually a fairly brilliant idea, and Castiel once again has to hand it to his husband—he’s so much smarter and more creative than he gives himself credit for. Privately, Castiel decides to reward him later. 

They spend a half-hour ripping one of the rum chests (minus the rum) from the back of the boat, knowing that they’ll need something with a much higher capacity than the little cooking pot if they intend to haul the clay back in a timely fashion. And if they don’t find any, they can use the chest to bring back water. Wearing the sweatpants and t-shirts Dean found and carrying all the rest of the clothes in the duffle he found them in, they don their boots and set off for the pool, following the markers Dean carved into the trees during their first trek out. 

Several times during the hike Castiel thinks he hears rustling nearby, but whenever he stops to peer into the bushes, it ceases, and nothing bursts out from the foliage to cross their paths. He and Dean each have one side of the chest, rope from the boat as handles pushed through holes Dean punched through it with something from his weak assortment of tools. As such, each time Castiel stops, Dean’s tugged to a halt as well, sometimes causing him to stumble on the uneven ground. 

“Cas, you alright?” he finally asks after the fourth or fifth time it happens, less than five minutes out from the pool, if Castiel’s memory serves. “You having a moment or something? Head acting up? Let me see those stitches.” Dean grabs Castiel’s chin, turning it this way and that to better inspect the state of his sutured wound, but Castiel bats him away.

“I just thought I heard something,” he mumbles, avoiding meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Oh, you mean your new best friend,” Dean replies, setting back off down the path with a grunt, while Castiel laughs in surprise. 

“Maybe.” 

“I’m gonna eat that pig,” Dean says confidently. “Just you wait.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes, secure in knowing that Dean is (probably) only messing with him.

There _is_ clay at the bottom of the pool, but retrieving it as a task and a half that involves holding onto heavy stones to drag themselves to the bottom, shoveling as much clay as possible into the middle of a t-shirt, and then pushing off to the surface to bring the clay topside. It’s tiring work, and Castiel can’t help but dread the knowledge that they’re still going to have to haul the full chest all the way back through the jungle to the boat. At least they did the washing first, giving their clothes ample time to dry on the sun-baked rocks surrounding the pool. As Castiel drags himself out from the water, plopping his naked ass onto one of said rocks (nice and warm, _very_ pleasant), he watches Dean finish rinsing the clay-hauling t-shirt off before doing the same. 

It’s difficult not to admire the way the water clings to Dean’s body, sluicing off in the most tantalizing way as Dean pulls himself up, biceps slick and flexing under his weight and— 

“Cas,” Dean repeats, looking at him strangely as he leans forward to scrub hands through his hair, wringing the excess water back into the pool. “I said your name like three times. You alright? You look…” He trails off worriedly before putting the back of his hand to Castiel’s forehead.

“Oh,” Castiel says, flushing and ducking away, as if Dean isn’t his _husband,_ as if he’s been caught doing something inappropriate by ogling him. It takes Dean a few seconds before the pieces click together, but when they do, the smirk that lights up his face is unparalleled. 

“Were you _perving_ on me?” he asks, clearly already knowing the answer, and for reasons unknown, Castiel’s flush deepens. _Husband,_ he reminds himself. _Not just allowed, but expected. We’ve been married for years, holy hell._ “That’s adorable,” Dean continues, leaning in to kiss Castiel’s cheek and mouth at his jaw a little. “And if we weren’t losing light, I’d totally be game for getting down right here, but.” Dean motions to the chest filled with water-topped clay. “No offense, but I’d rather get down with you in our bed at the Hilton after a disgustingly large steak dinner and drinks with Sammy.” 

“After we lock the bad guys behind bars and save the city from certain annihilation right in the nick of time, of course,” Castiel adds with a straight face.

“Of course.” 

“We should eat and get moving, then. That’s a lot to accomplish before bed. The sex alone could take several hours.” Castiel watches with satisfaction as Dean’s eyes glaze over a little with those words, his expression becoming slightly distant. Pleased, Castiel gets up and slides past him to retrieve the fruit and fresh crabs they’d cooked and packed into the side of the duffle prior to setting off on this mission. Castiel’s glad they opted to take the extra time and bring some protein, he’s already exhausted from the physical work they’ve done up to this point. Fruit likely would not have been enough to adequately refuel either of them. 

As Castiel works at breaking apart the crab, he sits just shy of the treeline bordering the rocks. Several times he stops what he’s doing with the food to scrutinize the bushes after they move and shake with something that is _definitely_ not wind. Once again, nothing makes itself known, and Castiel goes back to his task, eventually motioning for Dean to join him so that they can eat together. 

One crab and half of a mango into his meal, Castiel sees the bushes rustling yet again and decides that he’s feeling brave. Without pretense, he pulls back a handful of branches to uncover a familiar snout, which sniffs and _“oink!”s_ in his direction. 

The reveal surprises Dean, who shrieks and tumbles backward over the rock they’re perched on. Fatback responds accordingly, squealing and shuffling back into the brush, but when Castiel continues to sit quietly, eventually, he shuffles forward again. Dean’s still being dramatic, peeking fearfully over the corner of the rock ledge with his knife in hand, glancing between Castiel and the boar with something like suspicion and also (Castiel suspects) like he’s spotted a wild bacon cheeseburger with legs. 

“Dean,” Castiel says calmly, holding out a crab leg which Fatback promptly grabs and annihilates. “Come back up here and finish your meal. Fatback is only hungry.”

“ _I’m_ hungry,” Dean complains, though he climbs back up on the rock warily, sitting several feet farther away from the treeline than he was before. “And my _food_ is eating my meal.” When Castiel doesn’t respond except to offer Fatback some more crab, Dean huffs. “Wild boar are dangerous, you know. They’re basically feral hogs. That thing would eat you as soon as look at you. You’re damn lucky you haven’t lost a finger.” 

Furrowing his brow at Dean, Castiel glances at Fatback, who _oinks_ as if to say, “stuff him, he doesn’t know me,” before shrugging. “He might try to eat you,” Castiel offers. “That would be understandable. After all, you did set a precedent.” Dean grumbles but reluctantly goes back to eating without further comment. When the humans have eaten their fill, Castiel pushes all the refuse towards Fatback, who is still sitting half-in, half-out of the brush. He eats with gusto which Castiel enjoys immensely, pleased that he’s made a friend and extremely glad he didn’t let Dean kill him. 

“He’s not getting on the boat, Cas,” Dean warns as they don sun-dried sweatpants, t-shirts and boots, pick up the _very_ heavy chest, and reluctantly start staggering back towards the beach. 

“Goodbye, Fatback!” Castiel calls, intentionally ignoring Dean, though Fatback doesn’t reply, busy ripping the remains of the crabs apart as he is. It’s _slow_ going with the clay, made worse by the fact that the forest floor has no discernible path to follow, which is bad enough just picking your way on foot. Now, all of the roots and vines and such prevent them from simply putting the chest down and dragging it, something they try and don’t last more than three feet doing, snagging on nearly everything they pass. 

The short walk turns into an endless slog, Castiel’s nothing-to-sneeze-at biceps burning and screaming at only the halfway mark. There, they stop to take a break, and as Castiel collapses against a convenient tree (Dean doing the same quite miserably across from him), the bushes behind him rustle. This time, when Fatback bursts through, no one screams but Dean does roll his eyes. 

The oversized pig circles the chest once, sniffs inside, and then sits down next to Castiel on his hind legs with a _flop_ against the leaves and a muted squeal. Castiel looks between him and Dean, smiling with amusement as Dean lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “I think he likes us,” Castiel says. “He seems smart.” 

As if in understanding, Fatback grunts and stands up again, nosing at the side of the chest. Dean grunts and stands too, stretching and shaking out his undoubtedly sore limbs. “Much as I hate to agree with the pig—and as bizarre as it is that I’m saying those words—we should get moving. Even if I can get the boat fully patched before we lose the light, it’s gonna have to cure overnight. I’d hate to push that timeline out further.” 

Castiel agrees, of course, and so he follows Dean’s lead, reluctantly lifting the chest back up and wincing with the effort. As they start moving (staggering), though, something strange happens. 

At first, when they set off, Fatback had jumped back into the brush, and Castiel assumed he was gone. Less than a minute later, though, he was back—walking alongside them as if he’d decided he was a part of the group. Now, as Castiel falters and the chest dips towards the ground, Fatback noses at the corner and grunts. “What?” Castiel asks irritably, as if the boar is going to answer, but Fatback just noses again. Squinting down at him, Castiel pauses. “Dean,” he says. “Could you… lift the chest up perhaps another foot or so, just for a moment?” 

Glancing over his shoulder, Dean makes a face but stops walking and complies while Castiel does the same on his end. As soon as the chest is high enough, Fatback slips underneath and stands there, completely still. Exchanging a disbelieving glance with Dean, Castiel hesitates. “Do you think he—?”

“No way,” Dean replies, shaking his head in astonishment. “ _No_ way. We put this thing down, he’s probably going to freak out and rip a chunk out of your leg.” 

“Oink, oink,” comes from beneath the chest, the bit of Fatback’s body Castiel can see now wiggling excitedly, but he stays where he is. Cautiously, Castiel lowers his end of the burden until it’s resting on the giant pig’s hindquarters, testing the waters. He persists even as Dean protests and tells him he’s not spending the rest of his night stitching Castiel’s lower leg back onto his body with a Hilton sewing kit. 

“You know, if he doesn’t swallow the whole damn thing before I can get it back.” 

But Fatback doesn’t react at all to the pressure on his spine, and even Dean reluctantly has to admit that he’s probably not going to “freak out” and retaliate by attempting to eat them. With Castiel’s encouragement, he sighs and lets his end of the chest come to rest, too, while Fatback just oinks in approval. They still have to hold the sides for balance, of course, Fatback is no level platform, that’s for sure. But with some lingering trepidation, Dean steps forward, and incredibly, Fatback follows. 

It’s an _unbelievable_ relief to have the help, and the three of them make it back to the beach in no time. Well, certainly much quicker than Dean and Castiel would have on their own. Fatback walks the chest all the way over to the boat and stands patiently while they lift it to the ground, oinking and lifting his head in what appears to be extreme satisfaction with his life choices. From the expression on his face, Castiel suspects Dean might be running through the exact opposite thought process, questioning literally everything that has brought him to this point. 

“Okay then,” Dean says as Fatback squeals and takes off into the brush without so much as a goodbye. Swallowing his own grin, Castiel takes the duffle from Dean’s shoulder and unloads the water jug before carrying it up to the boat deck and putting the newly-washed and dried clothes away inside the cabin. It’s a weirdly domestic moment, but it doesn’t fill Castiel with the same dread he felt yesterday, the same desire to stuff it all down and just _be terrified_ because that’s logical, that’s what he _should_ be feeling. 

_Fuck that,_ Castiel thinks, glancing around at their comfortable little blanket nest, and their clothes folded in piles, and listening through the window to Dean hum and putter outside, getting ready to work on the hole in the boat. Against all odds, Castiel smiles, accepts the warm glow inside his chest, and is generally unable to care about all the things he _should_ feel and only focusing on what he _does_. Perhaps it _is_ okay to simply take things as they come and enjoy whatever pleasures exist here for what they are. Perhaps it _is_ okay to let go of all that persistent fear and anxiety, to _own_ the fact that he and Dean are survivors, and they _will keep_ on surviving, against all odds, simply because they’re _determined_ to. 

While he’s down in the cabin, Castiel swaps out his sweatpants for his clean boxers, because it’s hot as hell and he’s no longer worried about scratching up his legs on various bushes and shrubberies. When he steps back out onto the boat deck and into the mid-afternoon sun, he feels _good,_ and better than that, he feels no need to caveat that with some ambiguous worry or fear. By the time he climbs back down to the sand, Dean’s buried inside the hull again and so Castiel leaves him to it, knowing that they’ll be losing the light sooner rather than later. 

He does make a mental note to check Dean’s injuries over after dinner, as his legs are looking awfully red, the various cuts marking them up standing out all the more for it. They may actually need to use that aloe vera for its intended purpose tonight.

Turning away, Castiel spies the fishing pole Dean planted upright in the sand after another failed attempt at catching dinner. It’s been there ever since, since it hasn’t been needed to hold the beacon. Castiel scratches his chin and considers his options regarding bait. They’re out of cooked crabs, but he could go and get some more, although that would take at least an hour. He’d have to walk to the end of the beach and back, retrieve the shellfish, _and_ cook them up. At that point, he might as well just make crabs for dinner. Chewing on his lip, Castiel considers the treeline, grabbing the cooking pot before making his way towards it. 

He doesn’t go far into the forest, just beyond the edge where he sits down and starts digging in the dirt, hoping to stumble upon some grubs or beetles or literally anything that could be used as bait. He finds exactly _one_ pitifully small grub-looking blob and plops it into the pot, disappointed. 

As if on cue, there’s an oinking to his left, several yards away. When Castiel looks up, Fatback is there, nosing in his own dug out dirt pile next to a different tree. From where Castiel is sitting, he can already see that the boar has been way more successful than he was. _Of course,_ Castiel thinks. _He probably eats this stuff._ After a few minutes of foraging, Fatback loses interest and wanders away and Castiel takes over his spot. He internally fist pumps (Dean would be proud) when he finds several large grubs and scoops them up easily. 

Whistling as he returns to the beach, Castiel baits his hook and kicks off his boots so that he can step into the water to fish. While Dean has shown him several different ways to cast, Castiel has no idea which might attract the particular species around here, so he sort of just throws his line haphazardly and waits. When there aren’t any nibbles, he reels it in slowly and tries again. 

The water is warm but refreshing on his hot skin, but the sun in his face is borderline too much. Castiel finds himself thinking back to Dean’s red legs and begins to worry that his face and neck are in for a similar fate if he stays out in the direct sunlight much longer. His skin is already beginning to feel particularly dry and tight, sore, especially over his cheekbones. _Definitely burned,_ Castiel realizes ruefully. He’s _just_ about to pack it in and settle for fruit if they have to (or mush, if Dean wants it), when his line goes taut and starts to unravel.

Excitedly, Castiel stops it and works it back in slowly, just the way Dean showed him when they fished at the Roadhouse in the Preserve. The _thing_ Castiel reels ends up being _huge._ It’s also quite stunning, if ugly and reminiscent of something prehistoric in the face—bright green with a yellow-gold belly and a blue-ish dorsal fin. It’s at least the length of Castiel’s arm from shoulder to fingertip, and not pleased about being snagged by a fisherman’s hook. 

Despite all that, Castiel manages to reel it in, scooping it up and taking it still-hooked back up the beach. “Dean!” he calls out excitedly, half-dragging the fishing pole behind him so as not to lose grip on the flopping fish itself. “Dean, look!” 

Thankfully, Dean’s outside the hole now, having broken apart another chest and used the pieces to patch the majority of the gaping space, secured to the side with mismatched bolts and washers. If Castiel didn’t have a live animal in his hands, he’d probably want to waste some energy being concerned about the way the patch job looks so far, but as it is, he’s got different priorities. 

“Holy shit,” Dean exclaims. “Cas, you fuckin’ legend!” He rushes over to help, removing the hook and putting the fish out of its misery with a clean slice of his knife. “You need help prepping it?” he asks, after kissing Castiel appreciatively _over_ the fish, but Castiel shakes his head no.

“You taught me well,” he says with a smile, letting Dean kiss him once more before shooing him back to continue his repairs. 

While Dean makes the most of the slowly dying sunlight, Castiel cleans and debones the fish, his greatest challenge being what to cook it in, when he suddenly has an idea. Slipping back into the forest, he locates the banana tree and retrieves several large leaves, returning to the campsite and wrapping both the fish and some cut mango inside of them. “This is practically gourmet,” Castiel mutters to himself, shoving the wrapped fish into some coals. “I should start a blog.” 

“Hey,” Dean calls out from behind him, just in time for Castiel to wrap up his food prep and sit back on his heels. He motions Castiel over and scoots aside when he comes to sit down, folding his clay-covered hands in his lap. There are smears of it on his face and shirt, too, and Castiel thinks the effect is entirely adorable. “What do you think?” Dean asks, smoothing a palm over the side of the now-sealed hole in the side of the boat, and Castiel grins, grabbing Dean by the collar of his messy shirt and dragging him in. Their lips meet hard and fast, Castiel licking into Dean’s mouth roughly to show his appreciation and when he pulls away, Dean sighs happily. 

“So, good then,” he murmurs, a dopey smile on his sunburned face. 

Castiel regards the patched hole thoughtfully, tilting his head when he looks back at Dean. “Think it’ll float?” 

“Guess we’ll find out,” Dean replies softly, leaning in to kiss Castiel again and lingering. “You up for another adventure with me?” 

“Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we sensing something more might be going on with Fatback? He might not be everything Dean assumes him to be...
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for betaing this chapter!! And also for letting me borrow Fatback himself. 😂 Surprise! Fatback is a bit of a star and will be appearing in a future fic of Mal's that cannot yet be named so be sure to head on over and make sure you're subscribed so you don't miss him!! Also, Mal posts new stuff like every week so you should prob do that anyway.


	9. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for explicit content: minor dom!cas/sub!dean + top!cas/bottom!dean, rimming, BJs, you know the drill. this is probably a good time to remember that this is fanfic and please don't complain to me in the comments about how there's no shower on this deserted island/cleanliness--it's fiction. if you can't handle that, *this is your tapout warning* 
> 
> In a related vein, this Dean and Cas are not experienced BDSM-scene people, they have their own brand of D/S that works for them, _and_ they're still figuring it out--having said that, I don't really see this Dean as a "sir" person, he does say it once but he's being a brat. So that's not a mistake, just a function of how I see their particular relationship. Cas is def a caretaker-style dom. 
> 
> alright, with that out of the way, should we find out if this mfer floats?!

After dinner, when the sun has gone down and the ocean is dark and quiet, the only sounds breaking up the night are the soft rustle of wind in the trees behind them. Full from the fresh fish and fruit, Dean and Castiel sit with their legs hanging over the back of the boat, staring up at the stars. The fishing pole is replaced in its holder, the SOS beacon on again for the moment, though this time they opted to leave it on the non-blinking setting, mostly for the ambient light. It takes some coaxing, but Castiel finally gets Dean to agree to a once-over of his battered body, which Dean accepts on the condition that he gets to do his own once-over on Castiel, which may or may not be a shallow pretense for sex (it is). 

Perhaps that’s why Castiel’s own modified physical (it _is_ pretty dark and Castiel is no doctor, after all) gets cut short, but to be fair, Castiel doesn’t see anything overly injurious on Dean’s body to write home about, and Dean _does_ let him cover his sunburns with aloe vera (“Don’t use _all_ of it though, Cas, c’mon!”). He’s _just_ convinced Dean to swing his legs around into the actual boat so that Castiel can kneel between them and check his feet when Dean really turns up the heat. Leaning down to kiss Castiel distractingly, running fingers down his chest and over his back and across his arms, making dirty comments just as Castiel finds something he wants to take a closer look at—Dean knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. To be fair, Castiel _lets_ his attention be swayed, having only checked one of Dean’s feet before giving in completely to his prodding and cajoling. 

Now, he’s straddling Dean’s lap and they’re making out heavily when Dean stops and pulls back, his own bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “Cas,” he says sweetly, and Castiel doesn’t need to hear it to know what’s coming next. “Cas, I could use a real distraction.” 

“Hmm,” Castiel replies and Dean wiggles his eyebrows enticingly. “Pleasure or pain? I have to be honest, I’m not sure that I’m up for the latter right now, all things considered.” 

Dean balks. “No—no,” he replies, shaking his head before reaching out to draw Castiel back in and press their lips together softly. “I just… wanna feel you take charge, feel you all around me, holding me and… and pushing me, kind of like the way we did it the first time we dipped our toes in. I wanna know that you’ve got me.” Dean looks down shyly as he speaks while Castiel shivers, and the air is plenty warm. The skin on his arms turns goose-pimpled; he understands exactly what Dean needs. It’s opposite, in a way, of what they did the night before, just… amplified. 

Castiel wants it too. 

Clearly misinterpreting his silence for hesitation instead of the awe it represents, Dean barrels on. “It’s not… it’s barely even a sex thing. I mean, well, it is, but—Cas, when you… when we’re like that— _together—_ it makes me feel like I can do _anything,_ stupid as that might sound. I really need to feel like I can do anything right now.” He looks up, wide-eyed and innocent-looking, surrounded by all the beauty and majesty of this unspoiled island and Castiel can’t help but think that _none_ of it compares. None of it, not to Dean, nothing even comes _close_. 

“You know that all you have to do is ask,” Castiel reassures his husband, stroking the backs of his fingers down Dean’s cheek, which he leans into without hesitation. 

“Love you so much, Cas,” Dean murmurs and Castiel has to look up at the sky and blink a few times before he’s composed enough to get on with it. Experimentally, he threads his fingers into the hair on the back of Dean’s head and tightens, pulling enough to jerk Dean’s head back slightly and force eye contact. 

“Safe word?” 

“Turkey bacon,” Dean replies, and though his eyes are already clouding into their subspace haze, he manages a cocky grin and Castiel snorts before slipping off his lap. The movement brings Dean forward with him, since Castiel hasn’t released his hair, and he goes pliant in his grasp. Wrapping an arm around his waist, Castiel kisses Dean deep and thorough, working his head this way and that while Dean moans quietly and sighs with satisfaction. 

When Castiel can feel Dean hardening against his leg, relinquishing his control so fully that his legs start to shake, he plants a last few soft kisses before stepping back and turning Dean around by the shoulders. “Hands down on the edge of the boat,” he instructs and Dean complies immediately, bending over in a way that showcases his ass _very_ nicely. He’s already down to his board shorts, thanks to Castiel’s insistence on him being mostly bare for his “exam.” Relishing the moment, Castiel takes care of the rest by tugging the shorts down and telling Dean to step out before kicking them to the side. 

He doesn’t bother with his own boxers and t-shirt, they’ll come off eventually; this is about Dean. 

Castiel circles from one side of Dean to the other, hovering a hand just above his body, close enough that Dean’s reddened skin will undoubtedly register its presence but not actually touching. It’s always a _thrill_ to have Dean like this; so eager to please, so stunningly patient and willing for _him_ and only him. 

“So beautiful,” he remarks, taking note of Dean’s suppressed shiver as Castiel’s hand ghosts _just_ over the back of his neck, the curve of his ear, the swell of his bicep. “Cold?” he asks teasingly, already knowing the answer but smirking nonetheless when Dean shakes his head no. “Answer me aloud,” Castiel reminds him and Dean draws in a shaky, intentional breath before letting it out slowly. 

“No, sir, I’m… very hot,” he says cheekily and Castiel rolls his eyes, only because Dean can’t see. Stroking his own jaw, Castiel contemplates where to start first, taking in the tempting planes and curves of Dean’s body, delicious enough to make his mouth water. 

Using his own foot, Castiel nudges Dean’s stance wider before standing behind him, groin barely brushing Dean’s ass as Castiel’s hands drift softly down the front of Dean’s thighs. He leans forward and kisses the center of Dean’s spine, letting his tongue dart out and dragging it a short ways up, one vertebrae to the next. His hands follow, but skimming Dean’s stomach instead, and he curls his fingers in so that his nails will scrape gently across Dean’s skin. Castiel knows Dean loves that, takes great pleasure in hearing the sharp little inhale as he grazes over Dean’s ribs, his nipples, his flank. 

“So good,” Castiel murmurs, letting his lips press down over Dean’s shoulder blades, across his back, and down his spine once again. He alternates between kissing and licking with the point and flat of his tongue while Dean tries not to shift underneath him. In Castiel’s mind, Dean is torn—which is likely from the debriefing conversations they’ve had in the past—half of him is surely reveling in the teasing while half of him is dying for Castiel to get to the good stuff or at _least_ to touch his cock. _No such luck._

When Castiel makes it to the bottom of Dean’s spine, he lingers there, just above where Dean’s crack begins, hands wrapped fast around Dean’s hips as he noses and nips at his wineglass dimples. Then he drops to his knees, spreads Dean’s cheeks, and blows a soft stream of cool air over Dean’s hole. “That’s alright,” he reassures Dean, rubbing his thigh soothingly when Dean clearly has to work to stifle a moan. “I would _love_ to hear every single one of the noises you want to make for me.” 

Without waiting for Dean’s response, Castiel kneads a cheek in each hand, pulling them farther apart so that he can dip his face in and lick at Dean’s hole. Dean _keens,_ practically loses his damn balance, and so Castiel spends a few seconds steadying him, pulling back and waiting calmly for Dean to still before he continues. “I love this,” he says in between nips to Dean’s rim and teasing swipes of his tongue that never fail to pull all sorts of noises from Dean’s throat. “You, like this. So open and vulnerable. So very much _mine._ You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?” 

Predictably, Dean moans and nods, pushing back into Castiel’s face. Instead of giving Dean what he wants, Castiel switches positions, ducking between Dean’s legs to face where his very hard cock is dangling between his trembling thighs. Castiel’s own knees are getting a bit sore, but he wouldn’t trade having Dean like this for the world. His knees will just have to deal. 

Locating the aloe vera, he slicks up his fingers before tonguing at the head of Dean’s cock and enjoying his groaning reaction. “Ask me,” he murmurs, but Dean just moans again, so Castiel waits, wet fingers in the air and mouth a mere _inch_ from Dean’s angry-red cock. 

Finally Dean catches on, moaning, “ _please, Cas, please”_ while struggling not to rock on his heels. Although Castiel has no idea if Dean is just that far in his head that he didn’t hear him, or whether he’s simply enjoying himself that much, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Either way, Dean is getting what he needs and Castiel is pleased he’s been able to give it. He swallows him down, swirling his tongue around as much of Dean’s shaft as he can, sloppily bobbing his head while he works a finger into Dean’s ass. 

Once Dean starts begging, he doesn’t stop, a litany of variously toned _“please, Cas”_ utterances falling from his mouth one right after another. Castiel sucks Dean’s cock, rolls his balls in his hand, and opens him up gently but efficiently, taking time enough to brush over Dean’s prostate but careful not to let him come. All the while, Dean keeps his hands planted on the side of the boat like the good boy he is, and sooner rather than later, Castiel thinks it’s time to reward him. 

He lets Dean’s cock fall from his mouth to yet another groan from the man himself, shushing him quietly with a reassuring hand on Dean’s side as Castiel gets to his feet and pulls his own clothes off. Standing in the same spot behind Dean that he started in, this time he lines his own cock up with Dean’s entrance and pushes inside slowly, without warning. 

“Yes, _fuck,_ ” Dean whines, shoving back and forcing Castiel fully seated before he’s ready, so Castiel pulls out wholesale and taps Dean’s hole with two fingers.

“No you don’t,” he warns. “Keep your hands down and stay still if you think you’re ready for me to give you what you want.” 

“‘M sorry,” Dean mutters. “‘M ready, please, Cas.” With a hand gripping Dean’s hip, Castiel tries again, sliding home quickly when Dean stays in one place and lets him control the pace. _“Oh,_ ” Dean says with a gasp. “ _Cas."_

Castiel soothes a hand up his back, rubs reassuring circles as he starts thrusting slow and deep. When Dean doesn’t make demands or try to take over the rate or rhythm, Castiel rewards him by picking up the pace, grabbing onto his shoulder for leverage. It’s only a few minutes of that before Dean’s breath is quickening, his ab muscles tightening in a familiar way beneath the tips of the fingers Castiel has wrapped around his waist.

“Can I come, Cas?” Dean manages to ask between gasps, and if Castiel wasn’t _completely,_ irrevocably gone on this sweet man, that would certainly do it. How Dean finds the strength and coherence in him to remember to ask at this point—it’s beyond devotion. 

In response, Castiel pulls him upright, clutches Dean to his chest and gets a hand around his cock to stroke him swiftly and bring him the rest of the way over the edge. Dean’s head drops back onto Castiel’s shoulder as he cries out and comes all over Castiel’s hand, the feeling of Dean tightening around him and giving himself over so completely all it takes to send Castiel thrusting desperately over the edge, too. 

They come down panting and sweaty, and when Castiel slips out Dean winces, though he’s quick to turn around and cup Castiel’s face, to kiss him like they haven’t kissed in _days_ instead of just minutes. “Incredible,” he says between presses of lips. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

Castiel kisses Dean back before stooping to pick up his t-shirt, the bloody one he was wearing in the crash, deciding that newly washed or not, it probably deserves to be sacrificed at this point. He wipes both of their bodies down and then helps Dean to their bed, tucking him in before going to retrieve some water and a piece of fruit, which Dean _inhales_ like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. When he’s done, Castiel lays him down and spoons him from behind, lacing their hands together over Dean’s stomach. They lay there quietly for several minutes before a strange thought crosses Castiel’s mind and he feels compelled to share it.

“Do you ever wish we’d kept the money?” 

In his arms, Dean stiffens before rolling over and blinking back at Castiel in surprise. “No,” he says easily, before making a face and tipping his head from side to side like he’s thinking. “I mean, I dunno, Cas. Times like these? I guess I’d be crazy not to think about how this whole thing might have gone down differently if we had more cash and resources. Hell, maybe we could have just bought the police out from under Crowley, if that’s what’s going on. Wrapped this thing in a day and gone back to the pool. Or maybe Sam would be landing our personal helicopter on the beach right now to pick us up.” His voice softens and he ducks his head, nosing at Castiel’s collarbone. 

They’re talking, of course, about the Alaskan Airlines settlement they’d received after the fallout from Dick Roman’s arrest and subsequent successful prosecution. As the sole crash survivors, and with the additional “pain and suffering” of their ordeal in the Alaskan wilderness, they unsurprisingly ended up with the majority of the compensation the airline was prepared to offer. At the time, that amount of money would have been life-changing for the two of them, but neither Dean nor Castiel could get the families of those who died on that plane out of their minds. Or shake the feeling that the money was tainted, considering where it came from and what they had to go through to get it. 

Some of the passengers lost in the crash left behind young families— _kids,_ spouses who were suddenly single parents—debt, bills, obligations that didn’t cease just because they never came home. 

In the end, it wasn’t a hard decision. The settlement dropped into their bank account not a month after Castiel became the _other_ Mr. Winchester, and together, they’d divided the money up and given it—freely and without expectation—to the families their less fortunate flight mates had left behind. It felt unquestionably right at the moment they went through with it, and ninety-nine percent of the time these days, Castiel believes that it continues to. 

Except, Dean does have a point, and _maybe_ in the darkest corners of Castiel’s imagination, he was thinking it too. He did ask, after all. “Would you do things differently, if you could go back?”

Dean looks up, green eyes sparkling, and Castiel can’t help but smile down at him. “Nah,” he says, shrugging one shoulder and reaching out to lay a hand on Castiel’s waist. “Winchesters aren’t big on doing things the easy way, you gotta know that by now. You’re a Winchester in that sense if I’ve ever seen one. Besides, no telling if that money would have made a real difference, besides maybe giving Sam the idea that he should get into this vigilante shit sooner. Maybe we would’ve been kidnapped in Greece or taken out by the mob in Russia or lost in the Bermuda Triangle instead of this. Who the hell knows?” 

Castiel can’t help but laughs, flopping onto his back and tucking a hand behind his head as he stares at the boat’s paint-chipped ceiling. Hopefully, this will be their last night here, though Castiel has to admit, the place has grown on him. In a weird way that he can’t wait to escape, but nonetheless. “Thank you,” he tells Dean. “I appreciate the perspective.” 

The warmth of Dean’s hand rubbing soft circles around his torso is comforting, grounding. “You been thinking about it? Wondering if we should have done something else? Wish you’d told me it was bothering you,” Dean murmurs, his voice increasingly sleepy, though Castiel knows him well enough to be sure that Dean will stay awake as long as it takes to ensure that he’s okay. 

“No,” he replies calmly, trying to sound confident, because he _is,_ really _._ It was just a thought, after all, and Dean’s reply did provide clarity and does mirror his own feelings on the subject perfectly well. “I was just… reminiscing and I wondered if you felt differently after all of this.” 

There’s another moment of silence, and then, “You think Sammy is alright?” Castiel turns his head, takes in Dean’s worried expression and tries to smile soothingly.

“I think that Sam was raised by an excellent role model who taught him how to be strong, how to survive, how to come out on top no matter what adversity he may be facing. I have every confidence that not only is Sam _fine,_ but that he’s doing his best to turn this unfortunate situation into a win for all of us.” 

“Damn, Cas,” Dean says softly. “You sure know how to say all the right things to a guy. C’mere.” Reaching out and threading fingers into Castiel’s hair, Dean pulls him down and kisses him soft and sure, very clearly doing his best to pour all of his feelings and thanks into it. 

“I love you, too,” Castiel says when they pull away, mutually settling down into the blankets to go to sleep. The sound of the waves outside their little window finally feels nothing but comforting. 

***

Fatback is waiting for them the next morning, sitting on his hindquarters next to the ashes of the campfire and oinking when Dean and Castiel hop down off of the boat. “Good morning, Fatback,” Castiel says sleepily, rubbing at his eyes and sitting down a few feet from the pig while Dean stays standing, looking at Castiel like he’s nuts. “I regret to inform you that we are out of crabs, but you are welcome to these shells.” He shoves a pile of mostly-meatless crab husks in Fatback’s direction and the pig digs in, his sharp teeth probably a lot more efficient at getting to whatever remaining meat might be in there anyway. 

In the meantime, Castiel cuts and peels fruits from their little stockpile, offering Dean an assortment which he takes warily, still shooting skeptical glances at Fatback. The pig pays him no mind, though, finishing with his crabs and snatching a whole mango right from Castiel’s collection without so much as being invited. 

“We are leaving today,” Castiel says conversationally, filling the silence that’s otherwise only punctuated by pig snorting and the soft sound of the waves washing onto the sand. 

Dean snorts. “Are you seriously _talking_ to him? Cas, alright, I’ll admit, he’s _maybe_ smarter than the average bear, but he’s still a wild pig.”

Castiel just shrugs and rolls another mango in Fatback’s direction, which he promptly devours. “He seems friendly, and especially hungry.” He looks around before glancing back at Dean. “Where do you suppose his family is?” 

Frowning, Dean picks at his own fruit. “I dunno, Cas. Hopefully, way on the other side of the island and intent on staying there. We got lucky once, I’m not convinced a whole hoard of these guys showing up would go over nearly as well.” Unconvinced, Castiel decides to drop the issue anyway, because it isn’t like it matters. Fatback was here before they showed up and he’s not coming back with them. Wherever he came from, surely, once Dean and Castiel are gone, he’ll return there.

When breakfast is over, it’s time. They pack up their campsite and make sure to load the clay-hauling chest until it's overflowing with fruits, and to hike down to refill the water jug, just in case something happens and they struggle to make it back to Oahu. Fortunately, the sky is clear, the sun is bright and visible, and Dean feels wholly confident in his navigation skills with those things to guide him. Even more fortunately, the boat’s gas tank was undamaged in the crash and should have _more_ than enough in it to get them home.

Dean gives Castiel a convoluted explanation of how he’s been thinking about the path they drove away from Crowley’s men, the direction the storm came from, and several other things that Castiel struggles to follow along with. After several minutes of rambling, Dean notices that Castiel’s eyes have glazed over and takes mercy on him, laughing and reassuring Castiel that the bottom line is, he’s confident he can get them back, even if the Crowley-rigged GPS unit they have fails.

While Castiel has every confidence in Dean’s navigating abilities, he’s still relieved when Dean spends some time yanking out the wiring around the helm of the boat and hooking said GPS unit back up to it for power. Turning it back on could surely alert Crowley’s men that they’re coming, but hopefully, Sam has the police on top of that. Regardless, Dean still has his gun (Castiel’s is sadly somewhere at the bottom of the ocean), and they’re prepared to fight, if it comes to that. 

With Fatback sitting in the sand and watching their movements with interest, Dean and Castiel launch the boat. It takes some work—Dean starting off by pulling the stern with the same rope they used to beach it and Castiel pushing from the bow—but they don’t get very far. It doesn’t help that the sand is soft, allowing the boat to bury itself and causing the two of them to have to stop and dig it back out every foot or so. It’s such a bizarre parody to their daily problems in Alaska that Castiel has to laugh, thinking about shoveling out the wheels of Dean’s truck just to go into work on an average, snowy Tuesday. 

Except here, it’s hot, the sun unforgiving where it beats down on their already burned and damaged skin. Both Dean and Castiel end up wetting t-shirts and wrapping the sopping fabric around their heads and necks, trying to ward off further illness and injury. They’ve been lucky—spending a lot of their time in the shade and able to avoid full brunt of the sun’s power. Now, that isn’t an option—not if they ever want to get off this island. They end up draining the drinking water jug before the hull of the boat even reaches the water, and Dean opts to refill it using seawater and the crappy filter that came in the emergency kit, not having the strength or drive to hike back to the freshwater pool, not when they’re _this_ close to freedom. 

_Finally,_ with the boat’s rear _just_ coasting over the damp sand where the tide is filtering out, Dean and Castiel give a last push, grunting and hollering and driving their shoulders into the bow of the ship so hard that it hurts. Castiel grits his teeth against the pain, yells his frustrations into the superheated air and drives forward as hard as he can. Fatback oinks and jumps up and down on his hooves next to them and Castiel staggers forward into ankle-deep water, nearly crying with relief when the boat gives way, sliding easily into the waves.

“Fuck, yes!” Dean hollers, fist-pumping with gusto and grabbing Castiel to drag him in and clutch him tight in a celebratory hug. He claps him once on the back, hard, before letting go and grabbing Castiel’s face, kissing him roughly before stepping away to turn the boat around and climb up the back. “C’mon, we’re burning daylight,” he calls down to where Castiel is still standing in the water, watching Fatback step into the shallows, oinking merrily and hopping up and down. 

“You can’t come with us, Fatback,” Castiel says sadly, reaching out and patting the top of the pig’s head. His hair is bristly and coarse, pretty much exactly as Castiel suspected it would be, but Fatback seems to enjoy the touch, bumping Castiel’s hand with his head. 

“Cas!” Dean yells, clearly exasperated, but Castiel pays him no mind, waving dismissively as he crouches in the water. 

“You must go home now, Fatback,” he says seriously. “Go and find your family, I’m sure they miss you. Thank you for everything.” With a sigh, Castiel pets the boar’s head one last time before turning away and climbing up onto the boat. 

“We don’t seem to be taking on any water,” Dean declares. “Just give me a sec.” He hops down over the side with a splash and Castiel peers after him, watching as Dean checks the state of the clay patch and grins with satisfaction, flashing Castiel an extremely dorky double thumbs-up. On his way back up the ladder, Dean does a double-take when he notices Fatback still standing at the shoreline, but unsurprisingly, he doesn’t seem inclined to say an emotional goodbye. “Everything’s ship shape,” Dean says smugly as he swings a leg over the stern and onto the deck, clearly pleased about his terrible pun. We will definitely— _probably—_ not sink.” 

“How encouraging,” Castiel deadpans as Dean turns over the engine. 

Before he takes off into open water, Dean looks back, gravitating automatically into Castiel’s space as he reaches for his hand. Both of them pause to take a long, last look at the beach and their abandoned little campsite. Once again, they’re leaving behind a place that will always spark a bizarre mash of mixed memories in them both, a place they will likely never return to, and _once again,_ that is oddly heart-wrenching. 

This wreckage, like that of their ill-fated airplane and all the people lost when it went down, will always follow them. Traumas like these aren’t something you get over, not really. With time and therapy and patience from loved ones, they may fade, might become less terrifying, less all-consuming, but their imprints—the _scars_ they leave behind—those persist. If the Alaskan wilderness is where Castiel and Dean fell in love and learned to trust each other, despite and perhaps _because_ of what they had to do to survive, then this place is the next step forward. The island—whatever it’s called—has cemented their already strong foundation, shored up weak spots they may never have even known were there. 

And this is the place where Castiel became a warrior, instead of a victim. 

This is the place where he and Dean _decided, together_ that fate is bullshit and that they’ll damn well rescue themselves if they have to, from whatever their lives might throw at them. All of Castiel’s worst nightmares, the things that have haunted him in the dark for _years_ now—they all came to life here. Things he could barely bear to dream about and yet when actually faced with the reality of them, Castiel stood up, looked them in the eyes and _stepped past them._ The void made a grab for his soul and Castiel stared back without fear, without hesitation, and told it (as Dean would say) to _go pound sand._

When he looks up at his husband now, Castiel can see those same thoughts written all over Dean’s face. The same emotional melancholy, the swell of pride and accomplishment—it’s plain as day that he feels the same. As in sync as they are, Castiel doesn’t need to say anything, he just squeezes Dean’s hand and smiles when Dean nods, his eyes a little misty. 

As Dean puts the boat in gear, Castiel waves a regretful goodbye to Fatback. He watches until their unlikely ally is no more than a speck against the sand, a dark splotch at the edge of the waves, the mountains rising up behind him in all their lush, green majesty and swallowing him up as if he was never there at all. As if none of them ever were. 

With a sigh, Castiel forces himself to turn around and focus on the endless stretch of dark blue in front of them. 

They’re going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Bek, who reminded me to close an important loophole that I'd otherwise forgotten about, lol. 
> 
> You may have noticed the updated chapter count... we're almost there. ;)  
> Next time: Sam POV  
> Next, next time: it wouldn't be "Wild" if we didn't spend some time in a hospital, would it?


	10. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _After nearly a full half-hour of silence, Jody finally propped her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands and said, “You know I could lock you up for this, right?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof... i feel like this went really quickly?! well anyway, here's your climax, lol. enjoy!  
> and stop worrying about Fatback, i promised not to do him dirty!  
> that's your problem, y'all have no faith 😂

_Sam_

“Can the teams line up by color assignment? I need to see everyone with their groups and standing by their boats before we review search-specific protocols.” The female police Captain’s voice sounds over her raised bullhorn, valiantly attempting to organize and account for all the paid and volunteer rescuers that have congregated on the pier to help initiate the major, multi-island search for Dean and Castiel Winchester.

Sam watches from the far end of the pier as she raises her hands in frustration when the crowd is slow to move. He’s gotten to know the Captain— _J_ _ody,_ as she keeps insisting Sam refer to her—pretty well over the last few days while they worked together to build a case against Crowley and his minions _and_ did their best to narrow down the search for his brothers to something more manageable than “the entire Pacific Ocean.” 

“Come on,” Jody prods, waving her arms like, _get a move on, assholes._ “Stop dragging your feet, this is a coordinated rescue effort, not social hour at the Rec Center.” Sam snorts despite himself, chewing on his nails and trying to remember the last time he got more than an accidental twenty minutes of sleep after passing out upright in a chair. When he’s unable to recall, he shakes his head and focuses on draining the giant cup of coffee in his hand. Jody’s agreed to take him out on her boat today, assigning Command Central for the search to one of her Lieutenants for the simple reason that she knows Sam wants to be out there looking.

He’s grateful, more than grateful, for everything Jody’s done for him and for Dean and Castiel—wherever they are. Sam thinks back to the night he showed up at the police station looking like a drowned rat and probably sounding like he was in need of a padded room and some heavy tranquilizers. He hadn’t known who to trust, who might be safe and who might be in Crowley’s pocket, but with the storm raging outside and nowhere else to turn, Sam hadn’t had much choice other than to roll the dice and try his luck.

And it _was_ luck, simple as that, which brought him to Jody. Well, luck, and the storm. As Captain, Jody is normally scheduled to work a nine-to-five admin shift and should have gone home an hour before Sam burst through the main station’s front doors, soggy and scared. That day, however, she’d stayed late to ride out the storm, to ensure there were no major emergencies that needed tending to on the Island because of it. As such, she was the one to get Sam a blanket, to take him into an interrogation room, to sit him down with a cup of hot coffee and listen while he spilled his guts. 

Despite his worries about dirty cops _and_ his own self-preservation instincts, when Jody told him to talk, Sam didn’t hold back. He knew that there was a clock already running on Dean and Castiel’s likelihood for survival, that if he wanted to have the _best_ possible chance of bringing them both home safely he had to put it all on the table, consequences for himself be damned. 

At first, Jody had been taciturn, letting Sam’s explanation turn into a rambling mess without so much as attempting to fit a word in edgewise. As he spoke, Sam pulled printed emails from folders, showed copies of the ill-gotten credit card and bank account statements, freely handed over all of the info he had compiled connecting Crowley and his business to the multiple previous missing persons and now, his brothers. He’d begged for Jody to believe him and even voiced his concerns that Crowley might have contacts in the police department itself. Of course he worried that Jody was one of them, but it’s not as if he had any option other than to _try._

When he sat back in his chair, exhausted and more devastated than when he’d begun (and increasingly worried about the time they were wasting sitting there), Jody’s poker face could have rivaled Bobby’s. And Bobby only _has_ two expressions to begin with: reluctantly amused and _are you a damn idjit?_ So that was certainly saying something. She’d sat there for a long moment, scrutinizing Sam carefully before she leaned forward and started sorting through his paperwork on her own.

After nearly a full half-hour of silence, Jody finally propped her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands and said, “You know I could lock you up for this, right?” 

Sam had started, floundering a little since, while he was prepared for this to happen, he’d certainly hoped it wouldn’t. “Yes,” he said finally, resigned and reluctant, but honest. “I—I know that what I did—what _we_ did—was illegal. I’d tell you that we were just trying to help, but I know that doesn’t change anything. Officer—”

“ _Captain_ Mills,” she corrected, eyes hard.

“Right, Captain,” Sam stammered, twisting his fingers together over the table. “Please. I am more than willing to take complete and total responsibility for my crimes. I’ll sign a full confession, pay fines, do jail time—whatever you want. Just _please,_ please believe me. Please help me find my brothers. I dragged them into this, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault. They’ve already been through a lifetime’s worth of trauma, you have no idea.” 

Jody had squinted at that, wanted to know what exactly Sam meant by _“a lifetime’s worth of trauma”_ , which led to him recounting the _entire_ story about the Alaskan Airlines crash and Dean and Cas’ time in the wilderness. He rounded out the tale with a full review of his and Bobby’s part in their rescue and exposing the Roman cover-up, including the hacker parts he’d never before shared with anyone beyond their little circle. To Sam’s surprise, Jody was fascinated and wanted to hear more, so Sam obliged, going into the details about what he’d been up to since then. Everything from law school to the tracking programs he’d attempted to install on his computer, to stumbling across the missing persons in Oahu, to recruiting his brothers to his doomed mission. 

When he had finished, Jody looked slightly more impressed, and Sam felt his hopes lift a minuscule amount from the depths of the dungeon they’d sunk to. 

“Alright,” Jody had said cautiously, pushing back her chair to walk over to the corner of the room and reach up to where a camera was recording their session. The blinking red light on its side faded to black as soon as Jody flipped a switch and Sam couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows. He was _just_ beginning to think that Jody was starting to feel sympathetic towards him, but now Sam worried she was about to shoot him dead and stage it as self-defense, like he attacked her while the camera was off. 

Correctly reading his anxious energy, Jody held out a hand as she stepped back towards the table and sat down again. “Relax,” she instructed, voice easy with the commanding air of someone used to being obeyed. She sat back down and drummed her fingers on the table, considering Sam openly one more time. “Can you keep a secret?” 

Blinking in surprise at the sudden shift in the conversation, Sam just nodded and Jody smiled, which made her whole face change to appear warmer, kinder, somehow. “I’ve been trying to catch that son of a bitch Crowley for _years,_ ” she says. “You wouldn’t begin to believe how many pies that devil-man has his fingers in on this island, how many _deals_ he’s made to make himself rich and to stay out of trouble.” Jody scooted forward in her chair then, expression earnest. “Sam, if you’re serious about wanting to help, I think you and I can make a deal of our own. You keep your squeaky clean record, and I get to put a really shitty dude behind bars for good. And hopefully, we get both of your brothers back in one piece in the process. What do you say?”

That one was a no-brainer. “Are you kidding? I’m in, all the way.” 

Of course, it wasn’t so easy as all of that because Jody was _official,_ and bureaucracy meant red tape and _time_. Time that Sam wasn’t sure they had to burn. Still, with Sam’s new information about Dean and Cas and the circumstantial evidence tying the other victims to Crowley, Jody was able to obtain warrants for the _hard_ evidence Sam already had, ensuring everything they were working with was admissible in court and on the up-and-up. Once all that was done, they had enough to then obtain a search warrant for Crowley’s home, business, and all of his boats, as well as reasonable suspicion on which to haul Crowley and his entire staff in for questioning. 

By six AM on the morning after Dean and Castiel’s disappearance, nearly twenty-four hours after Sam had watched them sail away, the suspects were all in custody. Crowley and the tour guide who took Dean and Cas out on his boat were already sweating it out in separate interrogation rooms, the rest of them thrown into the holding pen to be cycled through the third room as needed. The fact that the guide had a badly-patched bullet hole in his thigh had Sam and Jody feeling optimistic, crossing their fingers that the whole miserable event might be wrapped by noon. 

It wasn’t. Far from it, actually. 

Despite the fact that the search warrants turn up several things Sam predicted they would—such as Dean’s backpack and disabled GPS—a _lot_ of the recovered items won’t be useful to Jody until the forensic team has gone through them. Laptops, other GPS devices, business logs—all of that stuff has to be processed and combed through by _protocol,_ and Sam can’t help but feel increasingly frustrated.

When Crowley clams up like a, well, _clam,_ Jody is disappointed but unsurprised. “Listen Sam,” she says, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder as she hands him a fifth cup of coffee. “It hasn’t taken me years to even _get_ that lizard into an interrogation room because he’s an easy motherfucker to pin down, you hear what I’m saying? Give it time. Let him talk to his lawyer while my guys keep putting pressure on his minion in the other room. One of them will flip eventually. Think about it, we’ve got some good stuff here, and with your testimony, we can probably make a solid case for most of the missing folks on your list being connected to Crowley. But there are no bodies—” 

Sam opens his mouth to protest and Jody holds up a pacifying hand. “ _Or_ living victims,” she clarifies pointedly and he relents. “Once the D.A. decides to offer him something, give him a reason to share something with us, he will. Guys like Crowley, it’s all about saving their own skin. We just gotta play this one out.” 

“My brothers might not have _time_ to play this out,” Sam grumbles but once again, he’s without much choice other than to trust Jody. That ends up feeling like the right decision though, since Jody apparently never intended to wait for Crowley or his men to flip before sending out an initial search party. By early that afternoon, there are helicopters in the air and boats in the sea, all of them using everything from human eyes to SONAR to assorted other equipment Sam is unfamiliar with to case not only the visible parts of the water, but what’s lurking underneath it. The rescue teams start with Crowley’s island, following a pre-established plan to track backward from there to Oahu while covering as much open ocean as possible in between.

Sam immediately questions how anyone knows that Dean and Cas aren’t _beyond_ that arbitrary line, perhaps adrift or shipwrecked somewhere else within the small chain of deserted islands Crowley’s is a part of. Sympathetic, Jody reassures him that they will cover those too, eventually and if necessary. 

“We have to prioritize our resources, Sam,” she reminds him. “The ocean is a damn big place, in case you haven’t noticed. What we know for sure is that your brothers were at Crowley’s island and that Dean’s GPS was last active near it. Considering that Dean’s bag and disabled GPS were on the boat the guide came back with, the _best_ case scenario is that your brothers are still on Crowley’s island somewhere. It hasn’t been opened again since yesterday so it’s a solid lead. Plus, there are a _lot_ of attractions out there; buildings, caves, not to mention the big-ass forest that we _have_ to cover first before my bosses are going to authorize expanding the search perimeter to the open ocean. And seriously, Sam, I’m not new at this, and this is a good strategy. Trust me, alright? If they’re out there, we’re gonna find them.” 

Shaking his head, Sam wants to resist, his gut telling him that Cas and Dean were never actually _on_ that island at all. But unlike everything else he’s had cold, hard proof to support the otherwise crazy-sounding theories he’s offered so far, on this, he’s got nothing. So Sam just offers Jody a tight, worried smile and drinks his coffee, ignoring the burning in his exhausted eyes. 

The boats go out. The helicopters go out. The boots on the ground to Crowley’s island go out. Sam begs to go out, and Jody says no, not yet, she needs him here in case Crowley or any of his men start talking. By _far,_ Sam is the most well-versed in all the details of the case, and if anyone is going to help trip these criminals up, it’s going to be him. 

The sun goes down. The boats come back. The helicopters come back. The search teams combing the island by hand call it quits when they lose the sun and walking through the jungle becomes dangerous. No one discusses the fact that they need enough light to notice any potential disturbances in the earth, overturned dirt where none should be. People avoid making eye contact with Sam, and Crowley and his men are quiet as ever. 

Eventually, Sam falls asleep on the couch in Jody’s office, over thirty hours without sleeping inevitably taking its toll, despite the air conditioner blowing a fifty-degree breeze straight down onto his face. Weirdly, it reminds him of Alaska, of _home,_ and that’s reassuring in a way Sam really just _needs_ at the moment. With an increasingly heavy heart, Sam hopes—as his eyes slip closed against his will—that he’ll be awoken by Jody, excited and unable to wait for him to wake up to report that someone flipped, that they have more info, that Dean and Cas were _found._

That isn’t what happens.

When Sam does wake up, it’s midday by the hands on the clock on Jody’s wall. While he stumbles swiftly out of the office praying for the best, all of his hopes are quickly dashed by Jody’s glum face. _Forty-eight hours,_ he remembers Jody saying, right as they were preparing to bring Crowley and his men in. That’s how long they have before they need to charge them all with a crime or let them go. The thing is, while they _can_ charge Crowley with a number of things any time they like, once they do, it will set a whole other process in motion. Crowley will have to be booked and transported, processed into the prison, and his lawyer will almost certainly ensure that he gets a break, food, and time to rest. 

Those things all represent delays that Dean and Castiel can’t afford, at least not as far as Sam is willing to risk it. As twenty-four hours comes and goes and Crowley shows no sign of shifting, Sam starts to really worry. He goes so far as to leave the police station, thinking he’ll go down to the pier and rent himself a boat, do some searching himself. He gets halfway there before he has a bit of a breakdown, ending up sinking onto a public bench on the side of the road and sitting with his hands in his hair, unsure at _all_ what’s the right thing to do, the right way to go. The sun going down again over the horizon feels ominous, an unbelievable parody to a place that felt like paradise only days prior. Sam ignores it in favor of fiddling with his phone in his hand, torn between calling Bobby for help and advice, and worried that he’ll give the old man a heart attack if he does. He also considers calling Jess, suddenly craving the warmth of her voice and the comfort just having her on the other end of the line would bring.

Ultimately, he doesn’t call anyone, too ashamed and embarrassed and unsure of what he would even say.

It on that bench that Jody finds him, another perpetual cup of coffee in her offered hand, and Sam at least manages a smile for that. “Sorry,” she tells him as she passes it over. “I’ll bring a burrito next time, promise.” She sits down next to Sam and drums her fingers on her own takeaway cup before clearing her throat. Part of Sam wants very badly to be alone and part of him wants anything but that, so in the end, he sips his coffee and lets Jody stay.

“I try to take care of people,” Jody starts, somewhat awkwardly. “But I’m kind of terrible at caring for myself, so I never actually know if I’m doing a good job.” She pauses, looking down at her knees, and Sam waits patiently. “I lost… someone,” she continues carefully. “My son. His dad took him out fishing on our boat, storm came through unexpected. We found the boat but we never found them.” She wets her lips, looking up at Sam with steely determination in her eyes. “If anyone knows how you’re feeling right now, Sam, it’s me. And I _know_ that this feels slow, that sitting around and feeling useless hurts. I know it seems like nothing is happening, that no one is doing anything for you and for your brothers.”

Feeling torn, because he _has_ been thinking those exact things but also recognizing that Jody is doing her best, Sam just nods, trying hard to appear sympathetic to the personal story she’s shared at the same time. After all, Jody really is on his team. Might be the _only_ one, at this point.

“I don’t blame you,” she continues. “Listen, I’ve been pushing the higher-ups. We’re approved to expand the search at seventy-two hours, regardless of Crowley. I know you don’t have any idea how these things work, but that’s really good, Sam, especially when I can’t offer them any good reason to argue that your brothers are somewhere else, not on that island _._ You might know that in your gut and trust me, I believe you, I do. But bureaucracy ain’t that simple.” 

Sam nods again, blinking back the tears that are pricking at the corners of his eyes and dragging the shoulder of his shirt across his nose. 

“So,” Jody continues, suddenly sounding extremely casual. “I definitely can’t tell you that there are a couple of rogue boats that are going to start checking the other islands in the chain today.” Sam’s head jerks up, unsure if he’s still just tired or if he’s hearing Jody correctly. “That would be a serious breach of protocol, misuse of resources, and it’s not something I could authorize, if I knew about it.” 

“You mean—” He stops, and Jody blinks back at him innocently. 

“It’s a shame I can’t tell you that,” she says, very seriously, clapping Sam on the shoulder and smiling encouragingly. “Come on,” she continues, jabbing her thumb in the direction of the station. “I’ve got an idea to put some pressure on our number one guy. Crowley’s slick lawyer might keep him from buying into the idea that we’ve flipped his lackey, so, you know. We’ll have to actually flip him. You up for getting your hands a little dirty?”

Scrambling to his feet perhaps a _touch_ too eagerly, Sam nods and Jody laughs. “Are you sure that it’s okay if I’m in there? It’s not a conflict of interest or something?” 

Jody shrugs. “Well, we’re already breaking rules. And hey, you’re an official HPD consultant now. I got your ass on payroll so that you can testify about your hacking.” She pauses and points a finger at Sam. “ _Only_ the post-warrant hacking,” she clarifies warningly, “Which you did under the supervision of the Hawaii Police Department, after learning of your brothers' disappearances and coming to me with your suspicions, of course.” 

“Of course,” Sam agrees with a small smile. He follows Jody up the palm-tree-lined road to the station, only glancing once back over his shoulder at the open ocean still beckoning him towards it.

***

As evening of what will be the third night Dean and Cas have been missing approaches, Sam and Jody _finally_ have some _good_ luck. With Jody’s honed interrogation skills and Sam’s ability to poke and press at various details using the things he’s uncovered in his sleuthing, Crowley’s lackey, the one with the poorly-patched-up gunshot wound in his leg, starts to bend. It’s extremely clear that he’s terrified of Crowley, _way_ more so than he is of the police, but marinating in his own juices and sitting in the same chair for nearly two days has softened him up enough to get him to admit that he was driving the boat with Dean and Cas on it. 

That much, of course, they already knew, but it’s a start. From there, it’s just a matter of time (and permission from the D.A. to offer the scumbag a plea deal _if_ he’ll testify against Crowley, which the guy says he’ll only do if the D.A.’s office will offer him physical protection— _done_ ) until he admits that he and some other employees had left Dean and Castiel at sea on the original boat. He reveals that under Crowley’s orders, they had intended to shoot them dead, but Dean had surprisingly been armed and fought back. Sam’s hope _soars_ when he hears that Dean and Castiel were last seen _alive,_ at least, according to this guy, driving off in the direction of the oncoming storm. 

It’s something. At this point, the guy has no reason to lie. Plus, the things he’s saying don’t exactly make him look _good,_ so Sam’s inclined to believe him, and Jody agrees. 

“Crowley has GPS units on all the boats,” the lackey tells them. “Hidden units, not the one I took. He’s got a tracking system, but no one can access it except Crowley. He’s a paranoid bastard. So I can’t help you there, wouldn’t even know what the hard or software for it looks like.” 

After Jody gets the guy to point out on a map approximately where the gunfight went down, Sam compares the relative coordinates against Dean’s GPS’ last known location. It’s a match. Thrilled, Sam brings his findings to Jody, who points out that there’s an island in the deserted chain _just_ west of that point. It’s dark now and well into the night, but she calls one of her Lieutenants who’s still on the water and has him do a wide circle of the area. It’s much farther west than they’ve been looking, even for the rogue teams that went out earlier that evening to some of the other islands in the chain. 

Presumably, if Dean and Castiel are stranded out there, there will be _something_ to identify them: a campfire, an SOS beacon. All of Crowley’s searched boats were poorly equipped for emergencies, but they _did_ all have beacons. 

While they wait for any news, Jody makes good on her offer of burritos before jumping right back in and turning the heat up on Crowley and his lawyer. In the end, Crowley doesn’t budge, adamantly refusing to acknowledge that he had anything to do with these schemes, blaming his minions entirely. He rambles on endlessly in his smarmy British accent about business ventures and how he’s a man who knows when to cut his losses, while his men are forever looking for people to blame for their own fuck-ups. 

To be honest, Sam finds his entire stream of thought polluted, thinks it’s really obvious that the guy is under the impression he’s untouchable, that nothing they could throw at him will stick. _We’ll see about that,_ he thinks as he watches Jody work. 

In fact, Crowley is _so_ confident in his invulnerability that he really skirts the line in conversation, coming _this close_ to admitting involvement before skating carefully away again. This is all very clearly a game to him, and admittedly, he’s playing it well, dropping hints and setting the stage to lay the whole of the blame for this entire operation at his lackeys’ feet. At one point, he makes some sort of bizarre comparison to his men thinking they can get rich quickly off of scamming tourists like Dean and Cas, insisting that they were acting of their own free will and not under orders, to his own attempt to start a “swim with the pigs” experience on one of the adjacent islands to his own.

“You see, I borrowed the idea from Pig Beach on Exuma in the Bahamas. _Very_ lucrative attraction, at least in those parts. No overhead, except for staff you’re paying anyway, so it’s all profit. Except, the pigs aren’t native here, not the kind you need. You know what happens when you drop a bunch of domesticated pigs onto a deserted island here? They _die._ That is, unless you feed them and take care of them and cart a vet to the island every few months. And you can’t very well use actual wild boars, self-sustaining as they are. Boars _are_ native to this area, you know, but they’ll gore your customers. Not great for the Yelp reviews, I’ll tell you that much. Anyway, the point is, I _knew_ when to pull the plug on that whole thing. Just cut my losses and abandon the project altogether. That’s what you have to do. My men? They’re idiots. Always scheming, always getting in over their heads.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s no surprise they’d get wrapped up in something like this, trying to make a quick buck. Shame about the lost tourists, but unfortunately, I can’t help—not them, and not you lot.”

Sam looks on in open disgust as Jody keeps trying, pushing Crowley any way she can. He refuses to admit to the existence of the GPS tracker supposedly hidden on the boat, but Jody was prepared for that, and she already has the forensic lab focusing on figuring out how to access the network on their own. 

Ultimately, the Lieutenant she redirected from the rogue search party reports back—they didn’t see any beacons or anything else notable in the dark, but with the information Crowley’s lackey gave up, Jody has official permission to launch the expanded search mission the next day, anyway.

Sam spends the following few hours too anxious to sleep. Thankfully, Jody’s happy to put him to work organizing volunteers into available boats and teams, ensuring there’s medical on each once since they don’t have any idea what condition they might find Dean and Cas in. He’s more optimistic, more hopeful than he has been in days, just _jittering_ with anticipation to _get out there_ and _find them_ already.

Which brings them to now, to their current situation with the sun still high in the east and the day already sweltering. Jody is on her platform yelling orders and preparing to launch the coordinated effort officially, Sam is down the pier, ready to board her boat and head for that island they’d zeroed in on last night. The feeling in his gut has officially shifted—Sam has no idea how he knows, but he is _sure. That_ island is where Dean is, and he’s going to bring him home. Going to bring them _all_ home. 

The crowds are beginning to disperse, boarding their individual crafts, reviewing their assigned portions of the search grid, and conferring with their teammates. Jody is yelling last minute instructions as they wait for a few straggler ships to show up. The Coast Guard is here, the police already have several helicopters launched into the air and boats in the water, but there are just as many if not more personal crafts being offered up for the search. They’re all captained by empathetic locals who just want to help, and Sam is extremely grateful for such a kind and generous community. 

As he listens to Jody wrapping up her speech, he assumes the hum of an approaching motor on the water behind him is yet another such personal boat, late to the launch but here to help all the same. A few have arrived late like that while Sam has been standing here and while Jody was talking, but Sam’s certainly not going to begrudge another set of willing hands (and eyes). After all, each and every island in the chain has to be searched today, as well as all the water in between. It’s a daunting task, and unlikely to be finished thoroughly before darkness falls again tonight. Best case scenario is that they don’t _have_ to search it all, because they find Dean and Cas first.

The motor of the incoming boat cuts out and Sam hears its side bump roughly against the buoys tied to the pier, but Jody’s seemingly remembered she has a whole bit on radio protocol to review with the crowd and Sam is trying his best to keep up. 

So he’s not exactly paying attention to the two bedraggled figures staggering towards him, sunburned and looking incredibly worse for the wear, but walking and smiling all the same. Sam is so focused on Jody and trying to will her off the stage and onto their boat with telekinesis, that it’s not until a hand is squeezing his shoulder that Sam even registers someone is standing beside him at all. 

At first, he just glances down at the hand, frowning when he sees bright red skin and an assortment of cuts that continue up the arm. “Wha—” Following the arm up to the person it’s attached to, Sam blinks in disbelief as he stares back into the grinning face of his _very_ bruised and sunburned brother. Cas is tucked into his side, just like he always is, just like _nothing_ has gone wrong and these last three days have been some kind of giant group hallucination. It’s only Dean and Cas’ obviously poor physical condition and the giant gathering of boats and people that reinforce to Sam that it’s not. 

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says brightly as Sam gapes in disbelief. He motions to the organized chaos around the pier, the rescue teams gathered here _for them_ that are still preparing to go out, still gearing up for action and having _no idea_ that it’s _over, it’s fucking over._ “What’s all this about?” 

“Dean,” Sam sobs, unable to even _try_ and hold back the emotion that comes spilling out as he throws himself into his brother’s arms. “I _knew_ you’d make it. I told them—I _knew_ you were alive.” 

“Alright,” Dean says, half-casual, but his arms are as tight and unmoveable as steel around Sam’s back, and he’s pretty sure he feels wetness on his neck where Dean’s face is tucked into it. “Alright. Missed you, man.” 

It feels too soon when Dean pulls back, though Cas is right there and Sam copes by throwing himself into an equally intense hug from him, still overwhelmed with both shock and relief. “Cas,” he murmurs. Everyone’s eyes are shiny when they separate, though as Sam watches, Dean’s pupils turn a little hazy and he stumbles to the side. Sam darts forward to help, but Dean catches himself on Cas’ shoulder, steadies his balance and holds up a hand. 

“I’m good,” he insists. “Just a little thirsty and…” He makes a face, skin actually turning a little bit green right in front of Sam’s eyes. Before he can say anything else, Dean spins on his heel and vomits all over the wooden planks of the pier. 

“Oh, no,” Castiel murmurs. “Dean?” Cas gets a hand on Dean’s forehead but it’s only seconds before he’s shaking his head. “It’s too difficult to tell. I thought he was just hot from the sun, but…” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see Jody approaching from up the pier, quickening her pace from a walk to a jog as she takes in the scene with a wide-eyed look on her face. Presumably, she’s putting the pieces together from what she’s witnessing, and while he can’t hear her yet, Sam can see Jody talking into her radio. Before any of them can start to explain (and Sam would sure like an explanation too), Dean straightens up again, only to weave back and forth once and then drop like a stone, eyes rolling back in his head as Castiel catches him with a cry. 

_“Dean!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did y'all think of what Sam's been up to? thank god for Jody, right?  
> And poor Fatback :( hopefully, someone connects those dots...  
> oh, i guess we're worried about Dean too, aren't we?!


	11. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam leans back, scrubbing a hand across his face. “When you put it like that, it sounds so simple. Logical, even. Who can argue with a happy ending? Thing is, I’m just not so sure that—”_   
>  _“And I’m not sure that second-guessing our wins has ever helped anyone, least of all us,” Castiel interjects, patting Sam’s thigh. “I’m serious,” he repeats. “I think that we deserve better than that. I think that… we can simply decide to be happy, to be grateful, and to move forward.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is amazing, wonderful art in this chapter, not just by JackieDee but also by [LadyRandomBox](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox) who also drew some adorable sketches of Fatback in both this fic and MalMuses' ["Falling Inn Love"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048640), so don't miss it!!! I will never ever get over how adorable the little piggies are!!! Thank you, Lindsay!!!

This is the first ride in the back of an ambulance that Castiel has been conscious for. When the paramedics showed up, they’d taken one look at the severely sunburned duo and called for a second unit. Their plans had been to whisk Dean away first and leave Castiel in the hands of a first responder until the second crew arrived, theoretically only minutes behind them. Unfortunately for the well-intentioned medics, they hadn’t anticipated the degree to which Castiel would absolutely _not_ be entertaining that idea. When he all but snapped his jaw at the one who gently tried to pry him off of Dean, they’d backed away quickly and asked if he’d like to ride in the Captain’s chair instead.

He’s perfectly stable, anyway, no ambulance ride needed, despite how the medic warns that his blood pressure is low and his pulse is high and like Dean, his temperature is feverish. But Castiel waves him off, refusing to let her place an IV in his arm and start giving him fluids. “Please help my husband,” is all he’ll say, though the paramedic assures him repeatedly that she _is._ She points out the cooling fluids running quickly into Dean’s arm, the oxygen mask on his face, the cold packs wrapped in towels and stuffed into his groin, armpits, and under the back of his neck to work at bringing his temperature down. 

Despite all that, Dean doesn’t wake, and Castiel catches the paramedic cycling her blood pressure cuff more often after glancing worriedly at the displayed results on the cardiac monitor’s screen. “Is there…” she hesitates, her brow furrowing. “I just don’t feel this is heatstroke,” she murmurs, running a hand down Dean’s arm, lifting it up and looking at the damaged skin on all sides. She repeats the exam with Dean’s other arm, rolls him onto his side and checks his back, too, coming up empty. 

All the while, Dean remains floppy and lifeless, and Castiel can barely breathe. When the medic finishes checking out Dean’s torso, his jeans and boots prevent the same thorough exam of his legs, so she moves down the stretcher to take them off. “Is there anything on him that might be infected? Not that this can’t be something internal, but I’d think you’d be as sick as him if you’d eaten contaminated food or water or something. I see the arts-and-crafts sutures on his head, but that wound looks pretty healthy. Surprisingly.” 

Another time, Castiel would have likely felt pride at that fact, but right now, he’s too worried about Dean. Suddenly, he has a thought. “His feet,” Castiel offers anxiously. “Check his feet, he cut them up the first day we were there, and—” 

The paramedic pulls off Dean’s left boot and recoils, a nasty odor filling the enclosed box of the ambulance and making Castiel cover his nose, his eyes watering. Undeterred and apparently undaunted, the medic strips off the damp sock underneath, which even Castiel can see from his seat above Dean’s head is soaked with blood and some sort of greenish fluid. “Found it,” the paramedic declares, dumping Dean’s boot between his legs and pulling off the other one for good measure. Thankfully, there’s nothing so grim lurking beneath that one, and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. 

The medic grimaces as she pours sterile water over the bottom of Dean’s foot, catching the runoff with a towel shoved underneath his heel, and Castiel resists the churning of his stomach as the white fabric quickly turns several unappealing colors. The parts of Dean’s foot that he can see don’t look so hot either—red and swollen and just… unhealthy in appearance overall. “It wasn’t like that last night,” Castiel whispers and the medic looks up sympathetically.

“I believe you,” she says reassuringly, sliding down the bench seat to reach out with her gloved hand and pat Castiel’s own where it has a death grip on his knee. “It’s not your fault. He was on his feet for a while today, wasn’t he? I’m guessing they were wet when he put his socks and boots back on. He probably had a minor infection brewing that was bothersome but the least of his worries, considering, and the combination of weight-bearing, the moist environment, and his body trying to cope with the extreme heat and dehydration—recipe for disaster.” 

As she talks, she stands, grabbing the metal rail running down the ceiling of the ambulance for balance as she rifles in an overhead cabinet, pulling out a second IV bag, this one with a red label. “He’s sick, no doubt, but I already drew blood cultures for the lab to run and we have broad-spectrum antibiotics I’m going to start giving him right now.” She waves the IV bag and spikes it, piggybacking the line to the saline IV already in place. “I’m gonna call this into the doc right now, and they’ll be all ready to take care of him as soon as we pull in. We caught it early, and we’re gonna turn this around, okay?” 

Feeling dazed and unsure whether it’s from his own physical condition or seeing Dean so terrifyingly ill, Castiel forces a nod. As the paramedic talks in technicalities and convoluted medical-speak to the hospital over the radio, Castiel leans forward and cups Dean’s head gingerly, kissing his forehead and murmuring in his ear. “Please, Dean,” he says, “You…” He swallows heavily, trying to find the words to say what he needs to, but this time, they just don’t come. “Just, please,” he finally manages, a few tears slipping from his eyes and dropping heavily onto the white pillow beneath Dean’s head. 

Dean doesn’t wake up. 

The hospital is overwhelming, in a way that the ambulance wasn’t. There, it was just Dean, Castiel, and the nice paramedic who explained everything she was doing, who took the time to reassure Castiel that things were going to be okay. In the emergency room, Castiel is shoved to the side while a team of people descends on Dean, calling out orders and placing additional lines, ordering tests and adjusting medications. The paramedic stops to squeeze his shoulder as she wheels the stretcher out of Dean’s overcrowded room, wishing him luck and telling him he really should get checked out, too. 

Before Castiel can even properly thank her, he’s being pulled to the side by registration, receiving nothing but a blank stare and an eye roll when he can’t produce any identification or health insurance information for himself or Dean due to his wallet probably being at the bottom of the ocean, or perhaps in Dean’s stolen bag, he really isn’t sure. The woman starts to berate him when Castiel tries to step away, wanting to check on Dean, to see what’s happening in his room, and she raises her voice which makes him feel unbelievably overwhelmed and anxious. 

Thankfully, _thankfully,_ just as Castiel is about to burst into tears, Sam crashes through the double doors at the end of the hallway with the officer who appeared to be in charge of the search mission and several other cops in tow. “Sam!” Castiel calls, waving his hand wildly, and Sam rushes towards him, catching Castiel’s elbow just as he begins to sway, lowering him into a nearby chair just in time to prevent having two collapsed Winchesters on their hands. 

“Don’t worry, Cas, we’re here now, I’ve got you.” From his crouching position at Castiel’s side, Sam raises his head and looks around, flagging down the first unfortunate person in scrubs who happens to pass them by. “Hey, can I get a nurse over here? This man needs to be seen.” 

“Sam—” Castiel protests, but this time the kind-looking female officer interjects, placing a comforting hand on his arm. 

“Castiel?” He nods warily, attention still mostly directed towards Dean’s room, where various medical personnel continue to swarm in and out. “I’m Jody, it’s nice to meet you. You’ve got no idea how happy I am to see you and your husband in one piece. Let me ask you something. Do you think that when Dean wakes up, he’ll want to help us take down the man who did this to you both?” 

Caught off guard, Castiel manages to pull his gaze away from Dean’s room and blinks wide-eyed up at Jody. Hesitating, he steals a covert glance at Sam, unsure how much he should say. But Sam just smiles encouragingly like, _go on, it’s all good._ “Of course,” Castiel ventures, still reluctant to chance digging their hole any deeper. 

But Jody doesn’t seem to share any of the same hesitation, clapping him on the shoulder and gesturing around them. “Well, for that to happen, we’re going to need you _both_ walking and talking, in tip-top shape. None of this near-fainting business you just pulled, you hear me? So why don’t you let these nice people fix you up. I give you my word, myself or one of my officers will be guarding both your and Dean’s rooms until you’re released, and if you ask, they’ll be happy to provide status checks on what’s going on in the other room.” Jody tips her head to look pointedly at the uniformed officers behind her, all who nod swiftly in agreement. 

In the time they’ve been talking, a nurse has appeared next to Sam and she reaches down to help Castiel to his feet. Even after all Jody has said, he resists, turning back to the officers and holding up a concerned hand to clarify, “Guarded, like we are potentially in trouble?” 

“Hell no,” Jody scoffs. “Guarded like, these are officers I personally trust, and Crowley has his fingers everywhere. It’s for your safety and Dean’s, that’s all. Vouch for me, Sammy.”

Just like Castiel, Sam’s distracted, peering into Dean’s room and trying to find out what’s happening, but he whips his head back around when Jody addresses him. “Hmm? Oh, yea, Cas you can trust Jody. She knows everything, we’ve been working together. Crowley’s under arrest, but who knows what strings he might still be able to pull from the inside.” 

“Speaking of which,” Jody says, tapping her watch. “I should go get him booked, get his buddy to the safehouse, or whatever the D.A. wants to do with him. You call me as soon as Dean’s awake and Cas is well enough to hang out in his room for a while.”

“That will be as soon as Dean is awake,” Castiel interjects grumpily, reluctantly allowing the insistent nurse at his elbow to lead him away. Thankfully, he’s only one bay over from Dean, though even that one thin wall between them feels fairly unacceptable at this point. At least Castiel can see the staff rushing in and out of Dean’s room, feeling fairly confident he’ll know if something bad is happening, just from their movements. Sam goes with Dean, of course, without so much as communicating such to Cas. He’s smart enough to know that Cas wouldn’t have heard of it being any other way, that he likely would have refused treatment if Sam hadn’t been here to do exactly that. 

The next hour or so that follows is one of the longest of Castiel’s life. Vitals are taken, blood is drawn, and Castiel is hooked up to nearly as many IV bags as Dean. Fluids, prophylactic antibiotics, some other medications he’s not entirely sure what they’re for. His temperature comes down easily, unlike Dean’s, and the nurses seem pleased, letting him know that none of his test results suggest he has an infection. They compliment Dean’s work on his head before the doctor comes in and removes the sewing thread, replacing it with real sutures and the promise that the scar won’t be as bad as Castiel thinks.

Honestly, he really could not care less about that and he says so, which makes the doctor laugh and label him “ _r_ _esilient”._ The only thing left to discuss is pain medication, which Castiel is offered repeatedly and declines every time. He wants to be clear-headed for Dean, in case any decisions need to be made or hell, in case Dean just wakes up and needs him.

The minute Castiel is finally left alone for the rest of his fluid and medication to infuse, he makes a break for it. Clad only in a hospital gown and non-skid socks, he shuffles out of the bed and unplugs the IV pump from the wall without hesitation. Wheeling it to the door, he looks both ways, astonished when he gets a wink and a nod of encouragement from the pretty blonde-haired police officer standing between his door and Dean’s. 

“Go on,” she whispers, with an approving tilt of her head, her accent taking him by surprise. It sounds more Midwest than mid-Pacific, but Castiel has no time to dwell on that right now. Instead of replying, he shoots the woman a grateful smile before slipping out of his room and into Dean’s, where the sight that meets his eyes nearly takes him to his knees.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean’s scratchy voice sounds tiredly from where he’s propped at at a forty-five degree angle in his own hospital bed, Sam at his side. Despite his obvious exhaustion and the worrying pallor on his face considering the sunburn, Dean manages a warm smile and turns his hand over on the bed, twitching his fingers in clear invitation for his husband to join him and take his hand. 

“He _just_ woke up,” Sam rushes to tell Castiel, clearly not enjoying the smiting stare he casts in his direction. Dean laughs, the noise weak and his eyelids heavy, making Castiel feel a wash of fear all over again as he pulls the other empty chair over to Dean’s side. Their fingers intertwine immediately, Dean’s grip frail and shaky in his own, and Castiel feels tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey,” Dean whispers. “None of that. ‘M’all good, baby, just tired.” Dean tips his chin forward and Castiel goes, pressing their lips together softly as the tears start to fall.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against Dean’s mouth. “I was so… I am _still_ so terrified,” he admits, nosing at his own tear tracks staining Dean’s cheek before finally settling into the crook of his neck. “I love you so much.” 

Sam clears his throat, but it’s not the normal teasing kind, which kind of makes Castiel worry even more. “The doctor said he’s responding well to treatment. His vitals are improving already, and it’s a great sign that he woke up on his own so quickly. They’re worried that he’s septic from the infection and his foot may still need surgical debridement, but they’ll cross that bridge in a few hours, after the blood cultures come back and we see how he’s responding to the medications they’re giving him now. They put a better catheter in, here,” Sam points to where three IV-looking ports are sticking out from under a plastic bandage on the right side of Dean’s upper chest, just below his clavicle. Each port is hooked up to a different infusion bag hanging from its own IV pump and Castiel takes it back—Dean’s getting a _lot_ more medications than he is. Not that he’s complaining. 

Sam continues talking, oblivious to Castiel struggling to process everything. “There’s, uh, antibiotics—more than one kind. Um, fluids, steroids, something to support his blood pressure, and that one is blood. Uh, red blood cells. Something about oxygenation, I’m not sure… it was a lot.” When Castiel raises his eyebrows, Sam makes his best puppy dog eyes and _great, stalemate._

“Alright,” Castiel acknowledges without moving from the side of Dean’s chest _not_ sporting the evidence of extreme medical intervention. His eyes are getting heavy, but he resists, wanting to stay awake and support Dean, wanting to be conscious and alert in case the doctors come back in so that he can bombard them with questions. 

_Yes,_ he thinks. _Mind over matter, I can stay awake._

He’s out before his IV pole even starts beeping to be plugged back into the wall. 

***

The next few days pass in somewhat of a blur. While Dean is (unsurprisingly) admitted for continued treatment, Castiel is deemed well enough to be discharged from the ER with a warning not to overdo it and to keep hydrated. This frees him up to fuss over Dean endlessly, to his delight and Dean’s unbelievably dramatic despair. His husband’s ornery attitude is a balm to Castiel’s worried soul, since if he’s well enough to bitch and complain and want to do things for himself, he’s undoubtedly on his way back to being normal, healthy Dean. 

He doesn’t escape the operating room, unfortunately, but the hardcore antibiotics allow them to delay his trip there until Dean’s body is more stable to undergo anesthesia. Two days and _many, many_ conversations with Sam and Jody later, Castiel kisses Dean goodbye and waves as he’s taken beyond the “staff only” doors that mark the limits to the OR suite.

The procedure is short, only requiring the OR for sedation, not so much reflecting on the severity of the work being done itself. _It’s strange,_ Castiel thinks as he sits anxiously by Sam’s side in the OR waiting room, how he’s basically living through what Dean did back when they were rescued in Alaska and this was _him_ with the life-threatening injury. At least he doesn’t have to deal with angry family members trying to chase him away from Dean’s beside with anger and threats of a lawsuit, though. Castiel darts a glance over at Sam’s worried face, thankful that he’s become nearly as much of a brother to him as Dean, and more than relieved that he’s here now to share this burden. 

“Thank you, Sam,” he says softly, reaching over to squeeze Sam’s hand, but Sam just scoffs, pulling away slightly.

“I didn’t do anything,” Sam replies, clearly irritated, though Castiel suspects it’s directed at his feelings about himself and what he believes he owes to Dean. “You two saved yourselves, no thanks to me. I got you into this mess, I got Dean hurt, and I couldn’t even find him when he was lost, the way I promised I would.”

Castiel is silent for a moment, carefully considering his own words before speaking them aloud. He shifts where he’s seated in the uncomfortable plastic bucket chair, turning to face Sam more fully. “I can’t speak for Dean,” he starts slowly. “But, while this certainly did not go the way we all intended, I think I actually did get the closure that I was looking for. And you—Sam, from what I hear, you’re going to help put anywhere from ten to fifteen people behind bars, including two dirty cops and a serial killer that the police were unable to pin down and prosecute on their own. You should be proud of your accomplishments.”

It’s Sam’s turn to be silent, darting curious glances out from under his bangs in Castiel’s direction. “Yea?” he ventures hopefully, still sounding so unsure. He leans his elbows on his thighs and ducks his head. “Can’t imagine Dean would feel that way.”

“You two are hopeless,” Castiel huffs, flopping back in his chair. “Your brother is endlessly proud of you. While we were stranded, he kept talking about how worried he was about _you._ Listen,” Castiel continues with a put-upon sigh. “When we get back to Alaska, all three of us are going to see my therapist. Clearly, we need more help than we’re able to provide each other on our own, since we made the brilliant decision to try and heal PTSD by heaping more trauma on top of it.” Despite himself, Sam barks out a laugh and Castiel smiles widely. “I’m serious,” he continues. “Sort of. The bottom line is, though, while we may have taken a bit of a convoluted, dangerous route to get here, we all accomplished what we set out to do. We all survived and we’re all together, and the bad guys are going to get their due.” 

Sam leans back, scrubbing a hand across his face. “When you put it like that, it sounds so simple. Logical, even. Who can argue with a happy ending? Thing is, I’m just not so sure that—”

“And _I’m_ not sure that second-guessing our wins has ever helped anyone, least of all us,” Castiel interjects, patting Sam’s thigh. “I’m serious,” he repeats. “I think that we deserve better than that. I think that… we can simply decide to be happy, to be grateful, and to move forward.”

Sam blinks. “Be happy, be grateful, and move forward,” he echoes thoughtfully, staring at Castiel searchingly. “Gotta say, Cas. You seem different.” 

Castiel raises his eyebrows, but before he can say anything else, they’re interrupted by Dean’s surgeon coming through the double doors, surgical cap still on and face mask dangling from his neck. “Mr. Winchester?” he calls into the waiting room and both Castiel and Sam stand nervously. The surgeon smiles. “He did great.” 

***

Jody visits later that night, once Dean is fully awake and coherent again. They all kick back in various uncomfortable hospital chairs, sharing sodas and jello and cracking jokes at Sam’s expense about how well his hair didn’t hold up after three days straight of hanging out at the police station. 

“C’mon, man,” Dean wheedles. “Pretty sure I saw a pair of medical shears tucked in my nurse’s pocket. I could just—” He reaches out and mimes cutting Sam’s hair at the root with two fingers, resulting in Sam batting at his hands and trying to duck away, nearly falling off of his chair in the process. “I’m sick.” Dean pouts while Sam glares. “You’re supposed to be nice to me and give me everything I want.” 

“Well,” Jody interrupts, reaching down beside her chair and picking up a greasy sack of fast food she’d apparently forgotten about until now. “I can’t help with the haircut issue, but I do know at least one thing Sam was _sure_ you’d want, now that surgery isn’t hanging over your head and you can have more than liquids.” She waves the bag back and forth, the aroma of grease and fried meat reaching Castiel’s nostrils even from across the room.

“Bacon cheeseburgers all around,” Sam declares, taking the bag from Jody and distributing the spoils, using Dean’s overbed tray to shake out a giant order of fries for everyone to share. From his place at Dean’s side, Castiel holds onto his sandwich while everyone else rips theirs open, hesitating. “Not hungry, Cas?” Sam asks around a mouthful, a very Dean-like move if Cas has ever seen one. Sometimes the brothers are so much more alike than they realize, it catches him off guard. 

“Something like that,” Castiel says quietly. “I’ll just save mine for later, if it’s all the same. Thank you, Jody, this was very thoughtful,” he makes sure to add as he puts the burger back into the paper bag and picks up a fry, not wanting Jody to think him ungrateful. 

A touch on his shoulder has Castiel turning his attention back to Dean, who’s looking at him sympathetically, but also with a teasing glimmer in his eye. “Cas is missing his pet pig,” Dean declares between oversized bites, still focusing on him but clearly speaking to the rest of the room.

“Eh?” Sam asks, leaf of lettuce disappearing into his mouth the way Castiel imagines a rabbit might eat it. _Or Fatback,_ he thinks miserably. It’s not as if he’s had much time or energy to worry about their unlikely friend over the past few days, but the sudden appearance of bacon has his stomach turning. 

“Oh, you heard me,” Dean continues, digging into the fries and waving a few around as he talks, undeterred by the way his arm keeps slapping at his infusion tubing. “Cas made a friend while we were deserted on that island. A fucking wild boar, if you can believe that. I kept telling him he was gonna get gored when he least suspected it but...” Dean trails off and shrugs. “I guess he turned out to be an okay dude in the end. You know, for a feral hog or whatever.” 

Castiel’s busy glaring down at his untouched burger, picking at the wrapper’s edges and trying his best to disallow the ridiculous swelling of emotion inside him from making its way out. He’s so focused on _not_ crying over the stupid pig that he doesn’t realize Jody has stopped eating and is staring at him, not until Dean pokes him in the ribs and he looks up. 

Setting down her burger, Jody exchanges a glance with Sam before leaning forward and addressing Castiel. “A _wild_ pig? Did I hear that correctly? But he didn’t… actually act like he was wild?” 

Tilting his head to the side, Castiel nods, confused when both Sam and Jody raise their eyebrows at the same time. Dean picks up on it too, pausing mid-chew to demand, “Um… something you guys want to share with the class?” 

***

The police boat Jody had arranged to meet them at the pier is _much_ faster than Crowley’s, cutting the trip from Oahu to the deserted island nearly in half. Not to mention, Castiel feels like he can enjoy it a bit more this time, not having to worry about navigating or whether he and Dean are going to pass out from heat exhaustion or dehydration before they reach dry land. Not that Dean is with him this time, unfortunately not. As suspected, the hospital didn’t allow spontaneous night field trips for recovering sepsis patients, but Dean had been insistent Castiel go all the same, so long as Jody went with him. 

They sit side-by-side on the bow of the HPD boat now, Castiel borrowing one of Jody’s reflective “POLICE” jackets, half for warmth and half because it’s pretty cool-looking, Dean would definitely approve. They stare out over the passing ocean as the boat’s headlights cut effectively through the dark night, the moon providing additional light to see by where it reflects off of the water. Being out here again is doing wonders to clear Castiel’s head from the disinfectant-ridden claustrophobia of the hospital—the crisp, fresh air, the cool spray of salt water in his face, the knowledge that they’re going to do something _good._ Something _else_ that’s good, only the latest in what’s turning into quite a long list, actually. 

“So he just… abandoned them all there?” They’ve had this discussion already, but Castiel can’t quite wrap his mind around it, infuriating as it is. 

“From the way he spoke about it, sounded like a done deal. Like there weren’t any survivors left and he knew that. Not that we even had any idea _which_ island he was referring to, but now that we do, better believe I’m gonna see if the D.A. can stack some animal abuse charges on top of what Crowley’s already looking at. Disgusting.” Jody wraps arms around her knees as she shakes her head, an irritated look on her face.

“I’m worried,” Castiel confesses, having to raise his voice as they pick up speed over the open ocean. “It’s been several days and Fatback was already very hungry when we were there. I thought—that is, I’m no expert on wild animals. I thought he was just, you know, a pig. He was really starving, though, wasn’t he?” 

Jody nods gravely. “Looks that way. Don’t worry, Cas. He sounds like a tough little guy, made it a good long while without any human help. He knows where fresh water is, you said he dug for grubs, and you fed him while you were there. We’ll get him, and a team from the Zoo will meet us at the pier.” 

“He helped us,” Castiel says softly. “I can’t believe—”

“Crowley’s a dick,” Jody interjects. “But the one good thing he did was to train those pigs before he dumped them. They’re programmed to make their way to the beach when they hear boats and to then seek out humans. Makes sense, with what he was trying to sell, but it probably saved Fatback’s life. Hopefully, he’ll show up shortly after we arrive or at least, he’ll come when you call. He should. He did.” 

Castiel takes a deep breath and stews in his rage about this whole situation. He would _love_ to get ten minutes alone with this Crowley, give him a piece of his mind (and fists). But getting upset won’t help Fatback right now, so Castiel breathes out and lets it go for the time being. He trusts Jody, she’s earned it, and he has every confidence she’ll see justice for Fatback and his family done. Speaking of which… Castiel turns slightly towards the Captain, his ass shifting onto fiberglass decking that isn’t already warmed with body heat. The action sends a jolt of cold through his body and makes him shiver. 

“What about his family?” he asks, but Jody just shrugs.

“People from the zoo I talked to seemed to think that if they were still there, you’d likely have seen them. They were trained the same as your boy, after all. The zoo is going to send a bigger team out tomorrow, in the daylight, to comb the island and make sure, but I knew you wouldn’t want to wait. No good reason we can’t go and pick up your buddy tonight.” 

Feeling grateful, Castiel reaches out and squeezes Jody’s hand where it rests on her leg before pulling away again. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “Jody. Thank you for everything. This is so far above and beyond the call of duty. Dean and I never hoped…” He trails off and shakes his head. “And Sam. I know that you have a mutually beneficial agreement, but I wanted you to know how much you’re helping Sam process his experience and feel empowered. The difference you’re making in his life is not a small one.”

Jody just smiles and tips her head. “Cas,” she says patiently. “Don’t you think I have other IT specialists on my team? Don’t get me wrong, Sam’s brilliant, and a great hacker, but there’s nothing he provided for me or for Crowley’s case that I couldn’t have retrieved without him. Possibly with less legal scrutiny, even.” She shrugs as Castiel gapes in surprise. “Some things are more important. Sam’s mental health, for starters. Take it from someone who’s been there. With any luck, this’ll be a learning experience for him, help him figure out how to use his skills productively… And again, legally.”

Leaning back on his hands and watching Jody with a new level of admiration, Castiel finds himself searching fruitlessly for the appropriate words of appreciation. “Don’t bother,” Jody tells him with a grin, knocking sideways into his shoulder. “I know, I’m the shit. I’ve heard it all before.” 

There’s no time to get into anything else, as the island rises swiftly out of the darkness in front of them, taking both Castiel and Jody by surprise. The officer navigating the boat is careful to heed Castiel’s warning about the rocks on either end of the bay, and steers them in between smoothly and without issue. With only the limited light to see by, Castiel finds himself sad that he can’t appreciate the beautiful scenery or the way the shallow parts of the ocean sparkle where it washes onto the sand. It’s all just shadows and blurry shapes at the moment. 

Still, that doesn’t stop Castiel from shucking his boots and socks, rolling up his pants, and splashing down over the side of the boat and into the water to wade the rest of the way to shore. He keeps his boots in hand as he does, just in case he needs to venture into the jungle. Stepping out of the surf, the sand is cool and grainy beneath Castiel’s feet, with no sign of the way the midday sun undoubtedly baked heat into it only hours prior. “Fatback!” he calls out anxiously when there’s no sign of the tell-tale rustling of foliage to be heard. “Fatback, where are you?” 

Jody appears at his side, shaking water from her legs and dropping her own shoes into the sand before handing Castiel a flashlight. “Damn, it’s dark out here,” she observes, glancing around and squinting, like that will help her eyes adjust. “You expect it, but it’s still surprising.”

Her words are so similar to the thoughts Castiel had during his own first night here that he almost says so, but abruptly, he spies something on the beach that gives him a related idea. “Look,” he says, pointing to where the remains of his and Dean’s former campsite sits. “Fatback, towards the end, he always came when we were cooking or eating. Perhaps if we build a fire…”

“Worth a shot,” Jody agrees, and so Castiel goes about recreating the setup, using his own lighter as a shortcut but still building an impressive fire from scratch. “I want you with me if I’m ever lost in the wilderness,” Jody tells him once the flames are blazing, and Castiel grins, warming from the compliment and not just the fire. Brushing off his feet and pulling his boots back on, Castiel steps carefully onto the other side of the treeline, using the flashlight to find a mango tree and pulling several of the fruits down before returning to the beach to wait. 

When he returns, he finds that two of the other officers who accompanied them on this crazy trip have also waded to shore and are waiting with a thick blanket, which they’ll theoretically use to hoist Fatback up into the boat. Castiel wonders if they truly understand how _fat_ Fatback is.

“I hope he wasn’t just following his nose to the smell of crabs cooking,” Castiel worries aloud, crouching down next to the fire and dumping the fruit. “I’m not sure that we can accomplish that particular feat in the dark.” Jody opens her mouth to reply, but just then, there’s a familiar stirring and swishing of branches and leaves at the edge of the sand.

Holding out a palm for everyone else to stay where they are, Castiel creeps forward. “Fatback?” he calls out, but there’s no answer other than a focused rustling of leaves right in front of his face. Reaching out a hand, Castiel gingerly pulls a few branches back, revealing a sniffling pig snout buried far in the brush. “Fatback!” he yells gleefully.

“Oink, oink,” Fatback replies, sticking his head further through the bushes and appearing to eyeball the other humans on the beach. Castiel does his best to reassure the pig, offering him a mango and then immediately a second one after the first barely gets chewed once before its swallowed. “ _Oink,_ ” Fatback says emphatically. 

While Fatback is eating, Jody manages to hand Castiel a leash that’s meant for a police dog with a neck half his size. As such, Castiel opts to forgo the collar completely and just loop the leash through its own hand-hole. He doesn’t think Fatback is going to protest much anyway, not if the way he acted when Dean and Castiel were leaving is any indication. 

Thankfully for all of them, he’s right. Fatback follows easily on the leash when Castiel walks back into the water, and although the only way to get the blanket under him is to get him in deep enough to swim, Castiel doesn’t mind getting a little wet for the cause. It’s hoisting him up that becomes the real issue, Fatback being around two hundred pounds of squealing, squirming, and now-wet muscle. However, with the combined efforts of the two officers still on the boat and the three (plus Cas) down in the ocean, they manage. Everyone seems shocked that Fatback never once tries to bite or escape, just oinks loudly in their faces and pushes his snout into pockets looking for food. 

Once he’s shoved over the side and allowed to roam freely on the deck, he settles quickly, as if he belongs there. Castiel ducks down into the cabin to change his soaking-wet pants and when he returns, Fatback glues himself to his side and stays there for the duration of the boat ride back. The entire trip, over rough seas and calm, Castiel keeps an arm around Fatback’s stout body. He continues patting his head and apologizing for not understanding and for leaving him behind, but Fatback doesn’t seem to hold any ill-will towards him. Especially since Castiel snuck mangoes onto the boat and feeds him every last one without reservation. They take a selfie and send it to Dean, who, according to Sam, nearly busts the stitches in his head from laughing so hard.

The Honolulu Zoo’s team meets them at the pier, as promised. Castiel is a little wistful that he can’t ship Fatback home and make him a native Alaskan, but the small amount of googling he’d been able to do between when he’d learned about what Fatback _really_ was and when Jody had set up their final rescue mission had suggested that wouldn’t be in Fatback’s best interest. Hence, the Zoo. 

“We’re going to take great care of him,” one of the specialists promises Castiel, handing over a card with her number on it. “You can call this number if you want to come see him, we’ll get you in and you can spend time together. I’m sure… what is his name, again?”

“Fatback,” Castiel says seriously and the woman throws back her head and laughs. 

“Brilliant,” she tells him. “I’m sure Fatback will be very excited to show you his new home.” 

Fatback oinks as Castiel hugs him goodbye, but like the smart pig he is, he seems to recognize that he’s safe now, that he’s going to a better place and is no longer in danger. 

“I’ll call about expert witness testimony,” Jody says, raising a hand to the Zoo personnel as they tip hats and get back into their vehicles to take Fatback home. She puts an arm around his shoulders while Castiel watches sadly as they pull away. 

“Goodbye, Fatback,” he says softly, though this time, at least he has the satisfaction of knowing that they are _all_ safe and back where they belong. Well, nearly. “Alright,” he says, turning to Jody as the Zoo vehicles’ brake lights disappear into the dark. “I’m ready.” 

***

_Salcha, Alaska_

_One Year Later_

It’s five in the evening and dark as midnight (so par for the course in midwinter Alaska) when Bobby’s headlights sweep across Dean and Castiel’s living room. In retrospect, everything else feels oddly similar to how it was just a year ago at this time, down to the way Castiel’s pulling chopped veggies and meat out of the oven while Dean jumps up from the couch and sprints outside in a fit of excitement at the prospect of greeting his brother.

“Sammy!” Castiel hears him holler, the wind and falling snow gusting angrily through the door left hanging open in Dean’s wake. Castiel sighs and rolls his eyes, refraining from yelling after Dean since at this point, it’s probably faster to simply wait him out. Like clockwork, Bobby’s through the door next, dumping Sam’s bag onto the ground and acting irritated even though Castiel knows for a _fact_ that no one asked or expected him to carry it. He beats Bobby to the fridge, popping the cap off of a Margiekugels and handing it over with a smile. In true Bobby fashion, he scowls. 

“No one asked you to baby me, ya idjit. Now listen, I can’t stay for dinner tonight, got plans with Ellen. But you’re gonna damn well promise me that you three ain’t gonna get smashed and come up with some new harebrained scheme to get yourselves killed. _You_ were supposed to be the smart one,” Bobby complains, jabbing the neck of the beer in Castiel’s direction accusingly before retreating to the couch, not actually expecting an answer. This is a spiel Castiel’s heard some version of at least once a week since they returned from Hawaii to a _furious_ Bobby waiting for them at the airport, and there’s no sign of him giving it up anytime soon. They deserve it, of course, and Castiel takes the chastising in stride.

The brothers come through the door next, bringing the chilly weather in with them, arms slung around shoulders while they laugh and carry on. It warms Castiel’s heart to see Dean so happy and to see _Sam_ looking so healthy and secure. When the younger Winchester shrugs off his heavy coat, he’s still wearing his suit underneath, unsurprising since Dean said he went right from the courthouse to the airport, anxious to get back here after spending a full week in Hawaii for the last of Crowley’s final trial.

Over the past year, Sam’s been back and forth to and from Hawaii countless times; assisting with prosecuting and then testifying in the various trials for Crowley and all of his employees and accomplices. Dean and Castiel, on the other hand, were able to get away with only flying down once, since they’d given initial depositions before leaving Hawaii a year ago. Plus, the tour guide that Dean shot took a plea deal, which meant that the two of them were only needed for a couple of days for the one of Crowley’s trials that contained charges specific to them. That was months ago though, the trial Sam was attending to this past week actually related to Fatback and his less fortunate former family members. 

In the end, justice had prevailed all around, with Crowley winding up serving enough consecutive sentences that he won’t be eligible for parole until he’s around two hundred years old. Dean thinks that’s hilarious and has made _several_ tasteless jokes about Crowley being a demon that’s never actually going to die, subsequently wondering what the parole board will do when he actually _lives_ to reach that age, but Castiel’s learned to tune him out. 

“Sam,” he says warmly, greeting his brother-in-law with a hug. “Good to have you back safely,” he adds, patting Sam on the back as they pull away. “Dinner is almost ready, and Jessica texted me maybe thirty minutes ago that she was just leaving the hospital.” Castiel presses the home button on his phone just in case there’s an update, but his notifications are empty—Jessica is probably driving. 

“Awesome,” Sam says with a grin. “I’ll help you get dinner on the table but first, thought you might like to see these.” He reaches into his suit pocket and withdraws a sturdy-looking envelope bearing the “Target” trademark stamp. When he opens it up, there’s a stack of pictures inside. “I took these earlier in the week, had them printed out. I know I sent you the video, but I thought the fridge could use an update.” Sam hands the stack over and Castiel can’t help it—his eyes tear up a little with happiness at what he sees.

In the top photo, Sam is crouching next to Fatback, giving the camera an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Fatback poses proudly, almost appearing to have a smile on his face as several very small and much less furry baby pigs crowd around his feet. “You should see him, Cas,” Sam enthuses as he stacks the baked chicken on a plate and carries it over to the table. “They’re so cute and he’s such a proud Papa.” 

“Which one is Fatback, Jr?” Castiel asks, when Sam returns to his side.

“Umm… that one,” Sam says, pointing with his pinkie, since the pigs are so small. “And that one is Dean, that one is Castiel, that one is Jody, and that one is Sammy. Sammy is a girl,” Sam explains, wrinkling his face. Unable to stop staring, Castiel turns and carries the picture over to the refrigerator, where he hangs it using a very tacky but colorful “Hawaii” magnet in the shape of the state. It’s positioned next to a similar picture of him and Dean with Fatback in the middle, taken several days after Dean was released from the hospital and right before they’d left the island to go home. 

“Cute,” Sam remarks, elbowing Castiel in the ribs as he cracks the lid off a beer. “Seriously, though. You guys should think about going back sometime. Fatback would love to see you, you know he still recognizes your voice when you Skype. And Jody mentioned she wouldn’t mind a visit, either. She and Donna just bought a really nice house on the water and we all have an open invitation.”

“Well,” Castiel replies carefully, busying himself with opening a bottle of wine and locating four glasses. “I suppose we are overdue for a _real_ vacation. Talk to Jessica, figure out when she’s able to get off of work and let us know. You two are the ones with the difficult schedules.” 

Before Sam can reply, the door opens again and Jessica blows in, all blonde hair and sunshine despite the dark, and Sam’s face positively lights up to see her. “Don’t mind me,” Bobby says loudly, sidestepping their new arrival to slip out the door. He looks pointedly at Castiel and raises an eyebrow before he goes. “ _Behave,_ ” he says, presumably reiterating his warning from earlier, and Castiel obliges with a half-hearted salute. 

As the door slams shut behind him, Jessica strips off her coat and hands it over to Dean, who hangs it on a hook by the door. She’s still dressed in her work scrubs, rubbing her hands together briskly to warm them up as she stands on her tiptoes to accept a kiss from Sam. “Smells great in here,” she says.

“Dinner is ready,” Castiel says in reply, gesturing for everyone to come to the table as he distributes the wine glasses and fills them up. 

“How was your shift?” Sam is asking as he pulls out Jessica’s chair so that she can sit down before flopping ungracefully into the one beside her. 

“Sickening, both of you,” Dean remarks with a smirk and Sam shoots him a bitchface.

“It was great,” Jessica enthuses, ignoring them. “The ER is never boring up here, that’s for sure.”

Castiel picks up the tray of chicken and relocates a piece to his plate before passing it to Dean. “No regrets on giving up potentially being Jessica Moore: Nurse Practitioner to the Stars for ornery clones of Bobby and rural Alaskan medicine?” Amused, Jess just laughs and shakes her head. “What about you, Sam?” Castiel continues. “Any regrets on moving back here?”

“Nope,” Sam replies confidently. “You know, I think in a couple of years I could probably run for D.A.—maybe when Nick retires, or when the city gets fed up and ousts him—whichever comes first. The A.D.A. job is good, though, for now. I feel like I’m _doing_ good. Not once have I woken up and thought, damn, sure wish I took that stuffy corporate law job.” 

“ _Maybe_ that morning when our toilet overflowed and the super suggested you should just fix it yourself,” Jess chimes in, forkful of vegetables raised halfway to her mouth, but she looks entertained at the memory, not upset. 

“Alright, yea, granted, the money is crap,” Sam allows, wiping his mouth before leaning forward onto his elbows, the way he always does when he’s feeling passionate about something. “But my consulting business is taking off. With Jody out there vouching for me with her industry contacts, I’ve had several other police departments with cold cases hit me up for advice. Not sure what I can do for all of them just yet, but we’ll see. It’s good,” Sam concludes. “I feel like I’m doing good, and I get to do it here, with my family. The rest—the nice house and cars or whatever, it’ll come. It did for you guys.” 

Across the table, Dean beams, piece of chicken sticking out from between his teeth as he does. He chews and swallows (which is an improvement, for Dean) and then waves his fork like he’s suddenly remembered something. “Don’t forget. You, me, and Cas got an appointment with Dr. Moseley this Wednesday at two.” 

Humming, Sam pulls out his phone, scrolls it, and then nods. “Right, got it. I have to be in court in the morning, but that case should be done by noon. Maybe I can meet you guys for lunch?” 

“If the ER isn’t busy, I could meet you guys at the cafe across from the hospital,” Jess suggests hopefully and Castiel nods. 

“I love their salads,” he chimes in. 

“Salad?” Dean makes a face. “Their bacon cheeseburgers are where it’s at.” Castiel narrows his eyes, but Dean just shrugs. Fatback or no, there isn’t any changing what Dean likes, and he’s generally stopped trying and accepted that for what it is. 

“Poker after dinner?” Sam suggests and everyone immediately agrees enthusiastically. Below the table, Dean’s socked foot loops around Castiel’s ankle, sliding up the back of his calf while Dean continues eating, acting completely innocent. It’s only when he glances up with fire in his eyes and a quick wink that Castiel’s even sure he’s doing it purposefully. 

As sometimes still happens even a year later, Castiel’s struck by the easy domesticity of the moment. How simple, how _normal_ everything feels, even after all that they’ve been through. He and Dean don’t have nightmares anymore, not really. At least, not any more than regular people have bad dreams (or so Dr. Moseley reassures them). But what Castiel _does_ have are moments that feel surreal—flashbacks that aren’t debilitating or anxiety-inducing, just… _surprising._ It’s less like being thrown back into that moment and those emotions—whatever they might be—and more a sense of deja-vu, accompanied by the complete disbelief that they _made_ it, that everything _is_ okay now.

Castiel is a work-in-progress; they all are. But that’s okay, that’s _life,_ and he intends to keep living it. Whatever is up next for him and Dean, for Sam, for all them as a team or each of them individually, it _will_ come, Castiel knows that now. There’s no stopping fate, there’s no fighting with God when he decides there’s a plan already written for you. The only thing a person—any person—can control is how they react to whatever is thrown in their path. 

As Castiel glances around his comfortable, warm little home, with his loving husband, his brother by choice if not by blood, and his future sister-in-law, he can’t help but think they’ve chosen well. When he looks at Dean, at Sam, at himself in the mirror—Castiel sees heroes, ordinary people who wound up in extraordinary situations and chose to do extraordinary things. Perhaps others would disagree, but others’ opinions matter very little to him these days. They’re heroes to each other, in all the ways that matter in their own lives. 

Dean leans over, nuzzles his nose against Castiel’s cheek before whispering in his ear, “What’s up? You okay?” 

Castiel thinks for a moment, taking the time to pull back and stare into Dean’s beautiful green eyes before answering. “Yes,” he says decisively, prompting a wide smile to spread across Dean’s face, warming the inside of Castiel’s chest just from looking at it. “I am.” 

*** 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank ALL of you who were willing to follow along while I posted this as a WIP. Your comments and encouragement made a huge difference, really motivated me to keep writing and to post quickly. Please don't ever think you don't matter to an author, you do. <3 I hope that the ending is satisfying and was worth the wait. If you enjoyed this, please share or recommend it somewhere or to someone! Thank you all so much. 
> 
> ~~Also, Jackie aka @Winchester-reload's art piece is still forthcoming, so feel free to follow me or her on social media if that's something you'd like to see! Otherwise, it'll be embedded in the fic as soon as it's ready. :)~~  
>  I stuck it in the chapter it belongs in and also at the bottom here, because it deserves to be seen ALL THE TIMES.
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed Fatback in this fic, PLEASE go see him in the adorable original inspiration by MalMuses, ["Falling Inn Love"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048640), which she wrote for this year's SPN Media Big Bang!!
> 
> And visit Lindsay/LadyRandomBox on ["Twitter"](https://twitter.com/ladyrandombox)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on:  
> [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings) :)


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